


A Matter Of Taste

by wolf_shadoe



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-11-08 19:50:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 73,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20841077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_shadoe/pseuds/wolf_shadoe
Summary: A potentially horrifying story of lust, blood and hunger when the world turns inside out.Set shortly before Buffy vs Dracula; Riley left town at the end of S4.So I thought maybe I'd have a go at writing a sort of gruesome horror story. Hope you like :)POV switches keyed as usual, + for Buffy, x for Spike.All the thanks to my fantastical amazeballs beta, Micrindle23 💙





	1. Incipient

** +  
**

"You know, for a badly dressed corpse, that guy had brilliant taste in cologne," Xander said as she pulled him to his feet.

"Sure you didn't hit your head?" Buffy asked him. "Or is stale beer and burger grease your idea of fashionable perfume- You know what, don't answer that."

"Ha. Ha," Xander said, sniffing the front of his shirt where the recently-dusted vamp had picked him up to toss him into a clump of bushes. "You really didn’t smell it? It was like… I don’t know. But nice."

"I think it's time we called it a night," Willow said wryly.

Pulling a face at Xander, Buffy linked arms with Wil to continue walking. They'd insisted on accompanying her tonight, convinced she needed cajoling out of the slump she'd been in lately. She was _ not _ in any kind of slump, thank you very much, but all the same… it had been nice to spend some time as a threesome again, rather than the fivesome that had become standard ever since Riley left with the rest of The Initiative's remains. She didn't need a boyfriend; indeed, right now, with the sting of being left behind, again, not good enough to keep a man, not _ enough, _ full stop… lifelong spinsterhood was looking like an attractive choice. Still. An evening with her friends without their romantic bliss front and centre (and where no one had mentioned the R-word) had replaced some element of perk she hadn't realised she'd been lacking. Plus, slaying. Always a source of extra bonus perk.

After dropping Xander off, her and Willow walked back to castle Rosenberg, where they settled in on the couch to pass a bag of gummi bears back and forth over an episode of Xena. There was no lovey-dovey romantic bliss on Xena. There were no men saying, _ 'I love you, but I don't want to be with you'. _ There _ were _ lots of men being solidly smacked down for daring to affront the warrior princess. And there was Joxer, with his unrequited pining, but he was kind and loyal and perhaps a little like Xander - crush on the redheaded friend aside - and a reminder that it wasn't _ men _ that were the problem, but the people she'd fallen for. Maybe her and Wil and Xander should set out and become roving evil-fighters, putting down evil warlords across the wilderness, going where they were needed and doing what they pleased. It didn’t look very glamorous - forest-floor sleeping, not her thing - but maybe that was a fair trade-off for the freedom.

Except, she _ was _ where she was needed. The hellmouth wasn't going anywhere. She ate another gummi bear and contemplated going shopping for some really nice new sheets instead. The smooth kind, luxurious, high thread count Egyptian cotton, and in an overwhelmingly girly colour and pattern that would put pause to any hasty decision to christen them.

"Wanna come to the mall tomorrow?" she asked Willow.

"Huh?" Willow had a book on her lap, and that far-away look she got when she'd been entirely lost in daydreamy academia.

"Earth to Willow?"

"Sorry," she said, closing the book on her thumb so she wouldn't lose her place. "I've been trying niggled at by this all week - I'm sure there's a way to shortcut through those loopy C++ firewalls with a tidy C sharp exec build, and it's suddenly coming together."

"And I say, huh?"

Willow flushed slightly and smiled down at her lap. "Sorry. It's that coding elective I'm enrolling for. But I shouldn't be doing this now." She went to put the book aside.

"No," Buffy said. "If the Willow-brain is on a roll, you should totally go with it. Then we can go to the mall tomorrow to celebrate."

"Deal."

Or not. Buffy's sheet-splurging fantasies were destroyed when Giles rang first thing in the morning; there'd been a rash of deaths overnight. Postponed, she told herself. Corpse investigations first, then she could swing by the mall on the way home for the sitting-down-Saturday-dinner-thing her mom had instigated over the summer.

"I was out there twice last night," she told Giles, frowning. "With the others in the evening, then I did another round later on." It was never enough. Somewhere between her quipping in Shady Hill and the closing credits of Xena, six people had been murdered - separately - across town.

"Yes, well, you can’t be everywhere all the time."

_ But I should have- _ No, that way lay the ocean of unhelpful self-recrimination. "Any guesses what we're looking at? New player? Extra-hungry night for the normal ones? We are talking vamps, right?"

"Yes. And I'm not sure. It could simply be coincidence, but I think you should head down to the morgue just in case. Take a look at the fang impressions and see whether they match each other. I've told Moira to expect you."

"Joy." Vamp-wise or no, Moira always viewed her visits with a sort of deep scepticism and disgust at the impropriety of it all. Buffy couldn’t decide if the coroner's assistant was angry over the lingering suspicion that this was all some sort of complicated prank, or if she was hoping that it was and would reach a punchline eventually, so she wouldn't have to keep explaining missing bodies and barbecue fork accidents in her weekly reports.

Moira was surly, as usual. Two of the corpses might have had the same set of teeth in them; the rest were wider apart or closer together or, in one case, from a vamp with an upper left fang missing. She had Moira copy off details of funeral arrangements so she knew where she'd be spending her Sunday night, made her thanks, and left.

She was drying dishes with Joyce and discussing her sense of new-semester drift when there was a knock on the back door, accompanied by an unwantedly-familiar set of tinglies. Putting down her teatowel, she swung the door open and crossed her arms, glaring at him silently with her eyebrows raised.

"Need a word," Spike said, standing side-on and a safe distance back from the door, hands in his pockets.

"No _ 'step outside and let me drain you dry'? _ You’re losing your sunny nature."

He sneered at her, a wearied, deep-seated but impotent anger in the expression.

"Oh that's right, you can’t," she said, smirking. She looked back at her mom. "Give me a minute." Stepping outside, she closed the door behind her quietly, then asked, "What's up?"

"Willy's in hospital," he said. "Got himself beat up by a droomph demon this afternoon. Broke his leg."

Dubiously-aligned bartender with a broken leg; not high on her concern-o-metre. She couldn't see it rating this highly on Spike’s, either, unless he was here to complain about the disruption to his evening’s drinking plans. "That all?"

“No.” Another sneer, this time with a touch of an eye roll. “Where’s your investigative spirit, slayer? Human’s been attacked by a demon here; aren’t you supposed to charge into action, dish out righteous vengeance on the bastard? Maybe _ I'm _ not the one losing my touch," he finished cockily.

She shrugged. “He probably tried to dupe them over their drinks.”

“See, that’s what I figured," he said, manner shifting to friendly-ally in one of those whiplash-ey switches of temper he was full of. "Turns out, demon didn’t like his advances. Tossed him through the wall when he wouldn’t stop trying to make out with him, or summat."

Buffy frowned to herself, then shrugged again and said, "So it's a case of unrequited passion. And?" She'd have to go and see Willy, check it out properly, but she wasn't about to give Spike the satisfaction of announcing so.

"You do know what a droomph demon is?" he asked with mocking incredulity. "Warts, flaking skin, mouth like a lamprey?" He grinned quickly. "If he _ had _ been successful, he probably would have lost half his face. _ That _ would have been worth seeing." The grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he cut to seriousness, or his idea of it. "Anyway, there's more. Butcher just tried to hold my hand when I was handing him cash. All eager-like. Graspy. Something weird’s going on with the customer servicemen in this place."

"Tried to hold your hand?" she asked, confused. Internally, she put it together with the fact that one of last night's victims had been a gas station worker, somehow lured out from behind the safety of the night shift window to be left drained on the forecourt.

"Not that I'm knocking him for appreciating the goods," Spike leered, wiggling the fingers of both hands towards her in a gesture resembled nothing in particular and yet somehow oozed lascivious suggestion, "but he's never shown any interest before. It's not normal."

She sighed. "The butcher on Maple Court?"

"Only one in town," he said disinterestedly. _ Suspiciously _ disinterestedly.

_ Only butcher's in town. _ He couldn't afford to avoid it _ . _ Couldn't do more than bluster to get away from unwanted human groping, either. Not that it was her problem, but… "I suppose I'd better check it out," she said. "But this had better not be a setup."

"Give me some credit," he sneered, prickly again, ready to scoff and swagger away declaring that he couldn't care less anyway.

"I'll just apologise to mom," she said, and ducked back inside. 

The butcher - Peter - asked how he could help her this evening, miss, and waited politely while she fumbled about for the answer. _ Did you try to grope my mortal-enemy-cum… _ -What _ was _ Spike these days? Neighbourhood nuisance?- _ something, earlier this evening? _ No, she'd never get through that query with her dignity intact. If she'd thought to bring her wallet, she could have asked for a tray of sausages and gone on her way. Was Spike laughing behind her? Was _ that _ the setup, how he thought he'd get his kicks this week? Well, if so she wasn't going to play into it. Steeling her spine and lifting her chin, she opened her mouth to ask Peter--

He was looking straight past her, a hint of an embarrassed blush visible on his cheeks as he stared at Spike in fixation.

Turning to look over her shoulder, she appraised him quickly; no bumpies, same black-on-black clothing he always wore - sure, the bleached hair only added to his general undead paleness under the neon tube lighting, but it was nothing new and he shopped here all the time - the only notable thing about Spike right now was the wary, deeply unsettled look on his face.

"Peter," she said, then repeated herself sharply when he didn't seem to hear her, "Peter!"

"Just a moment, miss…" he said vaguely, without taking his eyes off Spike. "Sorry about earlier, sir, but you simply smell amazing," he murmured, and began lifting the hinged section of the countertop to come out.

She slapped her hand down on it, slamming it closed again. "What's going on?" she demanded.

"Just wait your turn!" he snapped, pulling at the counter with one hand and attempting to push her arm away with the other.

"Think it's time we bailed," Spike said from the doorway. "Oh, unless you want to snap his neck for me? Dude's clearly lost it, and I'm gonna need something to tide me over."

She backed out quickly, pushing the door shut behind her and jogging to catch up with Spike. At the end of the street, they looked back together to see Peter standing on the footpath outside his door, watching them.

"I'm going to Giles's," she said. "This isn't normal. Or safe." If Peter had approached any other vampire that way, he'd have been dinner in no time. Guess that explained the spate of deaths.

"Think the TV's calling my name," Spike said, and started walking off towards Restfield. "Let me know when you've put things to rights, yeah?"

_ Yes, Spike, I'll make that my number one priority. And thank you so much for offering to help. _She briefly considered running after him to point out exactly how concerned about any inconvenience to him she wasn't. But no, she needed to see Giles and start solving this before more people got hurt, and arguing in a graveyard wasn't going to get her there any faster. 

No, said Giles, he'd never heard of anything of the sort, and was she sure it wasn't something Spike had done to himself? Well then, perhaps she should visit Willy in the hospital tomorrow and see whether he could offer any explanation for his behaviour. After swinging by the morgue again to get the night's bad news in person.

She rang Xander and Willow, telling them to stay inside with their respective significant others tonight. Maybe burn some incense. Maybe put pegs on their noses. Willow promised to start researching the possibilities of a magical cause. Xander stated he was going to nail the doors and windows shut, fill the room with enough bleach to burn out his olfactory nerves, and treat the situation as a siege. He was _ not _ going near a demon until he got the all-clear, no matter how tasty they smelt. Anya, apparently, held no greater attraction than normal on that front.

Leaving Giles's, a light rain started to fall, swiftly building into a proper autumn downpour as she squelched her way around the sleeping town. No one was out wandering the streets in this, human or demon. Just one soaked slayer. Finally she gave up, and headed back to the dorm for a long hot shower.

She reached the back door of the morgue the next morning and let herself in quietly when she found it unlocked. This early on a Sunday Moira would be working alone, and there'd be little chance of bumping into grieving families.

A radio warbled from down the hall, and she followed the sound to Autopsy Room 1. _ Yah. _ Hopefully Moira was just writing reports, or cleaning floors, or whatever else she did that wasn't poking around inside corpses.

She knocked on the door softly and called, "It's Buffy."

"Come in," Moira answered, sounding oddly chipper. "I'll be with you soon."

_ Really, I think I'd rather wait out here. _ Unwilling to rebuff Moira's new note of friendliness, she pushed the door open and went in.

It took several rapid loops of fractured logic and knowledge for her eyes and mind to come together and confirm what she was seeing. There was a body laid out on a table. There was Moira, seated on her stool, bending over it. There was blood on her surgical gloves, and on the body's opened chest. All normal.

There was blood on Moira's face. Slathered around her mouth, running down her chin. Dark and glistening and not fresh new-wound blood but chilled, rigid corpse-blood and oh so unmistakable however much her brain tried to make it into something else. And Moira was smiling pleasantly through her flat little teeth all the way up into her smooth brow, and lifting something from the body - lifting a red sliver of flesh from the body - and she was- _ eating it. _

Not normal. Not normal by a long shot.

_ Great. _ "Moira," she said carefully, one hand sliding unobtrusively to the stake tucked into the back of her pants, "what are you doing?"

"Mmph," Moira said, then swallowed her disgusting mouthful and waved her to come forward. "It's alright, dear, plenty to go around. I didn't realise this was what you’re after, but I understand now. They really are delicious, aren’t they?" She began carving another piece of flesh from inside the thing. "And don’t worry, I secured it well before it woke up."

At that, another fact jumped out from the gruesome tableau: the table's vamp restraints were in place. They'd been Moira's addition to procedure when she'd first discovered the truth about Sunnydale's nightlife - any suspicious body that wasn't swiftly removed from the morgue was shackled to its slab at the neck, wrists and ankles, and stakes were kept within reach at all times.

Moira pulled free the chunk of meat she'd been slicing off, and the corpse jerked on the table, then began to thrash weakly in place. Not corpse. _ Vampire. _ Moira was _ eating _ a _ vampire. _ The creature’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, then it groaned a weak, wet-sounding, " _ Please… no, please. _"

Buffy slid free her stake, strode over, and brought it down into the thing's exposed heart, then jumped back a step to put her out of Moira's reach. The vampire twitched at the new pain, then exploded into dust with the familiar paft of air.

Moira leapt to her feet, face contorting into anger. "I wasn't done yet! You greedy little bitch, you just don't want anyone to share, do you? You think they're all yours thanks to some ridiculous made-up title. Well let me tell you, things have changed. I know now, and I'm not having you coming in here taking them! Get out!"

She came at Buffy, hands gesturing to shoo her away more than looking like an attack, and Buffy caught her arm, testing the warmth of it, the strength behind it. Moira pulled back, stronger than Buffy would have expected, but she supposed the woman did lift bodies every day, and certainly no stronger than the average fit human. Unable to pull her arm free, Moira fumed at her for a second, before catching sight of the blood on her glove and moving forward to lick at it instead.

Buffy dropped the woman's arm - or shoved it back at her - and ran from the place.


	2. Escalation

Revello Drive was closest. And mom was there, doing her regular Sunday housework round, wiping down the dining table with clean, citrusy spray and replacing the mat under the vase with a new white one.   


"Honey, are you okay?" she asked when Buffy came in, putting down her cloth and hurrying over. Her gloves were yellow, yellow and clean.

"Fine. I'm fine. Do you mind if I get everyone over here? We need to have a scooby meeting."

"Of course. I was just thinking about baking some raspberry muffins for lunch; I'll make enough for everyone."

Buffy’s stomach lurched. "Not raspberry. Brown. Make the brown ones."

Joyce looked at her strangely. "Are you sure you're okay? You look a little green around the gills."

"Yes. Just- I'll explain when everyone's here.

  
  


Giles was all for heading back to the morgue, armed with questions and zombie-killing supplies.   


"I don’t think it's just Moira," Buffy said. "I think it's much bigger. Willy, Peter, everyone killed the last two nights… Xander." She gave him an apologetic grimace. "And she didn't seem very zombie-like. Or interested in brains. More like she'd just discovered an amazing new diet." She shuddered and edged further back from the plate of fresh muffins. Food, not a thought she was ready to go near.

"Maybe someone's done something to the vampires," Willow offered. "Like, an attraction spell gone wrong.  _ Really _ wrong." She gave her own shudder. "We need a wider sample. You said you didn't smell anything?"

"Nope. Standard blood and corpse-innards. Repulsive."   


"Okay," Giles said, "Buffy, go and ask Willy what he experienced yesterday. We'll get stuck into the research and see what we can't find. We need answers before nightfall. And Xander-"

"I'm not going anywhere," he said quickly, devouring his fifth muffin. He was eating with intense purpose, determined to fill himself to the point of discomfort. 

  
  


She found Willy still at Sunnydale General, with a cast covering his shin. He didn't know what had come over him, but it had started as soon as he opened up that day. He shrugged off any embarrassment with a philosophical ' _ these things happen on the hellmouth' _ . He regretted trying to taste the droomph demon. He regretted not choosing an easier target, like the very drunk vampire he could have easily overpowered with the right opening move.  _ They just smell so delicious.  _ He was worried about the bar, left unguarded, probably well ransacked already by thirsty demons. She promised to swing past and find out. And maybe… sniff around.   


The front door of Willy's stood open, and she cautiously made her way inside. The bodies started just inside the door; humans, they looked like, four… five… six of them, limbs at odd angles, blood congealed and drying where they'd been torn into.   


There were sounds coming from further inside, out of sight, around the corner and through the half-closed door to the poker room. Wet, schloppy sounds. Mumbly groans and sighs. A dull, grating sound, like a blunt saw. With her stomach trying to climb out of her throat and sprint off down the street, she made her way closer, stepping around several more bodies.   


Maybe it was an orgy, some sort of demonic mating ritual that required a round of slaughter to set the mood. Maybe they'd lured all these nice people in off the street to be sacrificed to some entity or another. A girl could hope.   


Already cringing, she nudged the poker room door the rest of the way open.   


Several people looked up curiously at the intrusion; the woman from the store down the street, the mailman who also delivered to her house, a young girl, maybe seven or eight, sitting next to a woman who must be her mother. The rest just kept eating. The two demons were massive, eight-foot-tall, roughly humanoid things with forest-green skin. She recognised them from the last time she'd come in for information; shy, peaceful-looking creatures. Or, they had been massive. Splayed out on the floor with half of their flesh gone and their intestines pooling across the concrete, they looked both smaller and larger at once; the humans out-massed them easily, but there were parts of them all over the humans too, blood and gore to the elbows, smeared on faces, dripping onto shirts, muddling together where demon ended and human began. One man held a detached forearm and hand, gnawing at the meaty flesh of the elbow end with one side of his blunt little teeth. The woman from the convenience store had something that might have been a kidney.   


Buffy backed away slowly, heart thumping in her ears, and didn't start breathing again until she was outside.   


Get home. See what everyone had found. Pick up a nice clean book and help research, because she was  _ not  _ busting up that feast by hand.   


Shortcutting through the old Sunnydale Cemetery, a heavy banging sound caught her attention. Two men in suits and a woman in a Doublemeat Palace uniform were working together to ram down the door to a small crypt, using an angel statue broken off a nearby grave. She raced up as the door finally gave way and they rushed inside. There was a vicious snarl and the dull thud of bodies colliding, then she caught up to see the four of them in a tangle on the ground, the vampire's teeth in one man's neck, the other two humans fighting to keep hold of his arms with their own mouths.   


Buffy lunged her stake through the mass of thrashing limbs, and everyone crashed to the floor as the vamp dusted beneath them. Confusion fell, heads whipping around in search of their vanished meal. Then, sniffing, they fell to licking the dusty floor eagerly. Remembering Moira's anger, she left in a hurry before the dust ran out.   


She'd better warn Spike, infuriating menace to her sanity that he was. He might be the enemy, but he was an almost comfortingly familiar one, and she wasn't keen to see him get eaten by a pack of humans, however amusingly ironic that might be.   


She found herself sniffing the air after slamming her way into his crypt; tobacco smoke, whisky, hot sauce, and that earthy, dried-leaves cemetery smell. Yech. Reassuringly  _ yech _ .   


"Just let yourself in, why don't you," he sneered, standing near the TV.

She pushed the door closed behind her, then told him, "We've got trouble. All over town."

"And what, you want me to help? Hope you've brought your wallet. Oughta charge you for strengthening the door, too."   


That was less of a flat rebuttal than she might have expected. He must be feeling bored after a night at home. "No-"  _ I came to warn you  _ sounded much too kind.   


"You don’t want me to help? Piss off then, and let a vamp get his beauty sleep."

She almost did, just to show him. But she could be the bigger person. He wasn't even a person. He just had that horrible knack of getting under her skin in two seconds and making her feel like arguing on sheer principle. "Look. The people grabbing at demons? They're not trying to kiss them. They're trying to  _ eat _ them. And it seems to be affecting everyone who comes across one."

"Eat them?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Yep. There's a whole feast going on in the backroom at Willy's, and I just staked dinner out from under three people who broke into a crypt in Old Sunnydale."

Spike had paced across the back of the room with forced casualness, his body language sliding subtly into something wary, sharp, almost fearful. "Kind of you to let me know," he said, his voice a low, careful murmur. "Better be getting back to your scoobies now, working out how to fix things before more people get hurt."

What was he- "Oh, gross, Spike." She scrunched up her face in disgust. "There is  _ no _ spell or drug or hellmouthy weirdness that could  _ ever _ make me want to put my mouth anywhere near  _ you _ ."

"Seem to recall a time one did, 'less you were laying fake blame to cover your perverted tastes," he said with a cruel smirk, but relaxing slightly all the same.   


_ Lips of Spike.  _ No wonder he was worried. "Well, not this time. I just thought you should know what's going on." She took a step back towards the door.   


"Yeah," he said, relaxing a little more. "Think it's time to take my pretty face out of town for a bit." He tilted his head, assessing her. "What about you?"

"What about me?"   


"Only a matter of time before they pick up on you too. One would think you might be needing my help after all."

"No. Demons, Spike. Vampires and droomphs and gi'larins. They're not flesh-eating zombies."

"So why didn't you join the feeding frenzy? You're no bloody human either, pet."

"Yeah? Hit me then say that."

"Well, okay, you're part human. But the rest, that's what they're after. I can smell it, all that sweet slayer spice, potent and rushing and loaded with power. Don't kid yourself that they won't."

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, and turned to leave.   


"You change your mind on that, I might be on the north edge of the woods until dusk," he called after her. "After that, you're on your own."

  
  
  


** x **

Bolting his door again behind the slayer, Spike heaved a sigh and looked around. Nothing much here to bother packing. Coat, what blood was left, small handful of cash. Couple of spare shirts in case he found enough fun to ruin this one. Wished he had something to drink on this little holiday jaunt, but too late to worry about that now. Could probably do a bolt through Willy's and grab a bottle of something, but he was damned if he was going to be run out of town by a gang of humans when he could avoid the whole scenario.   


Take a break. Have some peace and quiet where a certain stroppy little bird didn't come booting in the door every week. Shame she hadn't agreed to come with; woulda opened up the options a lot to have someone who could actually physically repel any deranged humans that got in his way. Still. Being stuck listening to her whining for however long this took to resolve would hardly be worth the convenience. He sniffed sharply. Yeah, holiday. Peace and quiet.

After drinking half the blood in the fridge, he threw the rest into a bag with everything else, then jumped downstairs and made his way through the sewers to the abandoned garage the DeSoto was quartered in. 

  
  


** + **

There was more bad news at home; Wesley had called from Los Angeles. As of late morning, Angel was on the run from his own team (and the rest of the city besides), none of whom could explain what had come over them beyond ' _ he just smelt- _ ' Yes, they knew the rest. Whatever this was, it was spreading fast.

"Spike's leaving town," she told them all. "I saw some people breaking into crypts on the way back. We need… this place is going to get really messy as soon as it gets dark."

"We're all working on it as fast as we can," Giles said. "And Willow’s been tracking the spread of it through police reports. It's definitely centred here in town, so once we have the solution we're in the right place to implement it."

Buffy looked around the room, itching to  _ do _ something that wasn't sitting down quietly to research. Tara was even quieter than usual, tucked up in the corner with a book of spells, the curtain of her hair shielding her face. Willow had her laptop on one knee and her own spellbook on the other, looking she had an eye on each at once. Even Xander and Anya were reading studiously. The threat of finding themselves munching on a vampire appeared to be motivating everyone like never before. Joyce was in the kitchen, prepping an early dinner for everyone ahead of what promised to be a long night.

"I should be out there," she announced. "I can’t do anything here you aren't already, and I seem to be immune from whatever mojo this is. I'll circle the likely hotspots and try to keep people from getting themselves killed."

Giles nodded. "Do be careful. People tend to develop a mob mentality when someone interferes with their food supply."   


"I will," she promised. 

  
  


Four hours later, she sunk her sword through the spine of a tritarpik demon, then jumped back as the group of people who had been about to get slaughtered by it surged forward to eat it instead. There was no point trying to stop them. Perhaps they'd sate themselves, then wander home to sleep it off safely. In a day or two they could read about the hallucinogenic mould that had infected the town's bread supply or the chemical spill at the water treatment plant, and feel reassured that this weekend's events were indeed only a strange fantasy. Then promptly forget about the whole thing.   


There was green ichor down her pants and splatters of demon blood on her sword hand, and the nearest person was turning towards her with a curious expression and twitching nose. Right. Time to get cleaned up.

At the front of Revello she paused, suddenly reconsidering the wisdom of walking in past Xander in these pants. She needed him on research, not unconscious with a blackening eye. Taking the familiar route up onto the porch roof, she climbed in the window to her bedroom and headed straight for the bathroom.   


Twenty minutes later (and feeling much more human thanks to the wonders of hot water, scented shower gel, and her favourite strawberry hand cream), she wrapped her damp hair in a towel and went to join the others downstairs.   


"I've saved you a plate," Joyce called up as she closed her bedroom door. "Go sit down, I'll warm it up."

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she was starving; the shower must have been highly effective for washing away the day's sights. "Thanks," she called back, following the sound of voices to the living room.   


Nearest the door, Tara looked up when she came in, frowned to herself, then slowly spread her face into a happy smile.   


"What?" Buffy asked, crossing to perch on the arm of the couch. "Please tell me you've found something."

"Yes…" Giles said slowly, taking off his glasses and rising to his feet. "I mean no. I mean… Buffy…"   


He was staring at her strangely; too intensely, his face leaning forwards as he let his book fall blindly to the floor. A corner of the spine hit the floor first, denting against it, but Giles didn't look away from her to notice. The hairs on the back of her neck shot up like needles, synapses instinctively firing the opposite message to her thoughts as she shook her head and tried to deny them. Around her everyone else had risen too, Xander and Anya from the couch, Willow from her seat, Tara, who had already stood up behind her as she sat down.   


" _ No, _ " she said, her voice coming out in a whisper. She tried again for something firm and commanding, "No! Listen, I got some demon blood on me earlier. It's on my clothes upstairs. You can smell it. It's affecting you."   


They seemed to be struggling to listen, but steadily inched closer as they did. She began backing away towards the door, and they followed her step for step, five sets of eyes fixed on her, nostrils flaring as they drew in deep lungfuls of scent. They didn't look like her friends anymore. Their eyes were too big and hollow; their movement too stealthy. And everything about them was horribly, horrifically  _ hungry. _

In the hallway she pointed up at the stairs, stammering something about clothes again, but didn't think they heard her anymore. She didn't think she heard herself over the roaring in her ears.

The floor creaked behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see her mother standing frozen in the dining room, holding a plate of lasagna. Joyce's face crumpled, tears flooding her eyes as she took a slow, deep breath through her nose and set the plate down with a tiny clink against the wooden table.

"Oh, honey," she whispered. "You need to leave. Now. Go!" she cried, stepping forward suddenly, past Buffy to fling open the front door. "Run!"   


The others sprung forwards, and Buffy leapt through the doorway and down onto the front path before turning back.   


Joyce stood in the doorway, leaning forwards even as she held her arms out to the sides to try and keep the others back. "I'm sorry!" she sobbed. "I can’t-"

Buffy backed up several hasty steps to the letterbox, then out onto the footpath and into the street. "I know!" she shouted brokenly. "Close the door! I'll call!"   


She ran several houses down the street, throwing glances over her shoulder. No one had left the house, and a moment later the door slammed shut. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she took several deep breaths and listened until she heard them moving something over the door. They would be safe. They would keep working on the problem. She just needed to hole up somewhere quiet and wait.   


Heaving a sigh, she took stock. The sun had set while she was in the shower, leaving the sky lit with the deepening blues of early dusk. Probably too late to catch Spike, and that was a ridiculous thought anyway. He'd only spend the next few hours repeating various versions of  _ I told you so, _ take her somewhere completely inappropriate, and then kick up a stink when it was time to bring her back to fix things. No, she just needed to find somewhere out of the way to base herself for the evening, and a phone to ring home from. She looked down at her bare feet and short-sleeved shirt, and glared at her stomach for reminding her about the lovingly prepared dinner impossibly out of reach just down the road. She still had a towel on her head. She wanted to sit down where she was and cry until mom came and led her back into that warm glowing home. Shaking herself and gritting her teeth, she started walking quickly to Rosedale Cemetery and its payphone. 

  
  


She didn't have a coin to use it. Which wasn't really a problem, she told herself as she called collect, but did add to her general feeling of under-equippedness. Joyce was all tearful apologies. After several rounds of,  _ It's not your fault, mom, you did great, really, thank you,  _ Joyce audibly steeled herself and told her to be careful, before passing the phone over to Giles.   


There were more changes, Giles told her.  _ Joyce _ had dragged the dining table out to block the door, with an ease that seemed suspicious even for a mother protecting her child. Strength tests since had confirmed it - everyone was lifting a little above their weight class, so to speak. Not slayer-strong or even fledgeling-strong, but stronger than they were a few days ago. And… sharper, somehow. Research was easier; reading quicker, ideas simpler to seize upon. He posited that perhaps this was less about supernatural creatures being newly attractive, than humans having been altered somehow, and needing something from their new dietary choice to complete or maintain a transformation of some kind.

"So I should be trying to prevent them eating… things?"   


"No. Just keep yourself safe. We'll keep-"

"I have to go," she said quickly. There were lights across the cemetery lawn, the sweeping swing of several torch beams moving quickly in her direction through the gathering dusk. "I'll call when I can!"   


She hung up the phone quickly and ducked out of the booth, eyeing the distance between herself and the moving lights. They were spread out like a search party, looking very organised and frighteningly efficient. She turned her back on them and the shadowy cemetery to sneak off down the street instead, dodging the halos of streetlamps.

**** x  
  


When the sun finally fell, Spike got out of the car and stretched his arms and legs, shaking muscles and tendons loose from long hours of tense inactivity. Shoulda hightailed it hours ago, really; ignored his stupid spur-of-the-moment offer to the slayer and put some distance between himself and this accursed town. Fifty-fifty whether she was even going to fall on the demon side of this new division - she could be sharpening her knife right now to come and carve up the utterly helpless vampire that'd told her exactly where it'd be. Sixty-forty. Superpowers or no, she still ate a regular human diet alongside her friends every other day. Eighty-twenty. Fuck, he was an idiot. Time to bail.   


He'd just sat back in the driver's seat when a noise in the forest underbrush caught his attention; something crashing its way through in a panic. Not her, then. If she were to come for him, he'd never hear her coming. It'd be a crossbow bolt at a hundred yards to incapacitate him, stop him from running too far before she was on him with a knife. She'd probably let him make it a short distance for the thrill of it, for the blood rush of chasing and tackling before sinking your fangs - teeth - into something thrashing and quivering beneath you. Fair enough, too. He could relate. And unfair, on a cosmic scale of wrongness. He wouldn’t run. He'd stare her down with his chin held high like the warrior he was.   


Who was he kidding. He knew he'd run.

This noise, though. He closed the car door most of the way and held his fingers on the keys in the ignition, judging it safe to listen a little longer before the roar of the V8 engine would drown it out. Smashing through leaves and branches, heavy feet… too heavy to be human… low snorts of breath like a hard-running steer. Something he could hit, then. Something desperate, panicked, and therefore dangerous. He caught a whiff of it on the next drift of wind; a musky, slightly rank stench. Borvis demon. Relaxing slightly, he tapped his fingers on the keys and considered the options.   


Vamping out, he waited until the borvis burst into the open of the clearing he'd backed the DeSoto into. Then he leaned out of the gap in the door and hissed a short, " _ Psst!" _   


The creature’s head shot up, and it froze in place, chest heaving with whuffling pants. There was blood on one of its legs, matting darkly in the thick reddish fur.

Putting as much growly lisp into his voice as possible, Spike called over to it, "Demon. You, me. Don't get too close, and I won't either."

The borvis startled, snorted a couple of times through its large nostrils, then nodded swiftly, glancing left, right and back the way it had come. "Agreed," it said in a deep rumble of sound.   


"Something about to burst out behind you?" Spike asked.   


"Yes. No. I lost them before the trees, but they're everywhere.  _ Everywhere.  _ Thought it would be safe here, the hellmouth, you know, ran all afternoon to make it here… they're just as bad as everywhere else. Worse, maybe. Never thought…  _ humans. _ "   


"Where've you come from?" Spike asked, an ominous feeling crawling in his gut.

"Tichkin Forest. Up near San Francisco."

Several hours north. "When did it start up there?"   


"Midday-ish. You know which way to go? Further south, maybe?"   


Spike shook his head. "Wherever people aren't, I reckon. Find yourself a forest and wait it out."

The borvis nodded slightly, then stamped its feet and shook out its coat before trotting off past the car and across the highway, towards the desert and away from the town.   


Spike stepped out of the car to call after it, "Good luck!"

He leaned against the car, watching the demon until was out of sight. The sky was darkening rapidly now, the last indigo of twilight fading into a moonless night sky. Past dusk. She wasn't coming. Ah well. He could ring her place from the road somewhere, get an update on where was safe to run to. Reaching into his pocket, he dug out his smokes and lighter. More enjoyable sometimes, smoking when you weren't driving. Should have one before leaving. He lit one slowly and slumped his weight down against his elbows on the car's roof. This was so fucked. The weekend, the year, the entire three years since he'd first set foot in this shithole town. All of it just a slow downward spiral to reduce him to this pitiful shadow of himself, waiting for a slayer who wasn't coming and would probably kill him (in a horribly painful way, at that) if she did. Doubted he could bring himself to care if she did right now. Least she'd have a quip of some kind for him. Least it'd be her. If anyone was going to take him down, it had to be her.

Nah. Fuck that. Things would change again someday. They always did. Sometimes you just had to drag yourself a bit further and wait. Flicking away the butt of his cigarette, he swung the car door open and got in again to leave.

" _ Spike!"  _ Her voice came from far down the road, back towards town somewhere.

He turned to look. Buffy was running along the edge of the forest, ready to dive for cover if any traffic appeared on the highway. She slowed to a walk when she saw him stand up again, posture drooping tiredly. Her feet were bare, making her steps awkward on the stony grass, and she had what looked like a bath towel tied around her shoulders, over a short-sleeved shirt.   


He narrowed his eyes cautiously as she got closer, but her face showed only the wide-eyed twitchiness of an animal running to ground, her gaze barely skimming over him before she checked back over her shoulder anxiously. He'd been right, then. Humans were hunting the slayer. For one insane split-second, it crossed his mind that this was a bad thing. Must be the generalised wrongness of it all.

She walked straight to the passenger door without a word, opened it, got in, and slammed it shut.   


All right. Guess he had company after all. He dropped into his own seat, roared the engine to life, and pulled out onto the highway to get the hell out of dodge.


	3. What dangers lurked there

**** x  
  


"What happened?" he asked once the town lights were fading away behind them.

"Shut up," she growled threateningly, and turned further into the window.

"'S my car," he shot back. "Way I see it, you're the one on the back foot here, pet. Best remember that, unless you want to find yourself out on your ass on the highway."

"Stop the car!" she snapped, unfolding from her squashed up ball in the corner and jabbing a finger in the direction of the steering wheel. "This was a stupid idea. Pull over, right now!"   


"No," he said automatically.   


She lunged for the wheel, to do god-knows-what; send them into a tailspin, probably. He tried to shove her back with one arm, then clapped a hand to his forehead and cringed helplessly as the chip shot the world into blinding pain. Tires screeching, the DeSoto slid across both lanes, then bounced to a stop on the roadside with a final hard kick back of arrested momentum. Buffy threw her hands out in time to catch herself against the dash, bounced off it into the footwell, then shoved her door open and jumped out.   


"The hell was that!" he shouted, jumping out too. "You almost crashed the fucking car!"

Already ten yards away, she whirled around to point at him angrily and shouted, "That was you!" Then she turned her back on him and kept walking.   


He looked from her retreating form to the waiting vehicle, then grabbed the keys from the ignition and strode a few steps after her. "You won’t last the night out there, you dozy bint!" he called. "That bitchy streak will be the death of you!" She wasn't stopping. "I hope you like the rattlesnakes!" he shouted, then sighed to himself and looked back at the car. 

  
  


**** +  
  


He sounded despairing, underneath the hot words. Lost. She let her feet slow, then stop, and listened for the sound of his door closing or the engine restarting. When neither came, she turned around.   


Spike was standing in place, kicking at the dusty ground with the toe of one boot, fingers jammed into his pockets. He wasn't stupid when it came to self-preservation. He knew he had a much better chance of getting out of any trouble if she came along. So the least he could do was keep his stupid mouth shut and leave her alone in return.   


He kicked another clump of dirt, then gave it up with a sigh to stare at the ground morosely. He clearly didn't want to give any ground by asking her to stay, but he wasn't leaving, either. She held all the cards. All he had was a car that would become undrivable the second a human thought to step in front of it, and his defiant attitude. All he'd had for a long time lately was that irrepressible attitude. She let out her own small sigh. This situation wasn't natural for him any more than it was for her, and at least she could fight. She crossed her arms tightly and began walking back.   


When she came level with him he opened his mouth to say something, try to lay down conditions perhaps, but she raised a hand to stop him. "You told me so," she said flatly. "They all turned on me. The gang, Giles. Mom. She- she told me to run. I don’t want to talk about it." She got back in the car and tucked herself up against the window again.   


A long moment later he got in, put his seat belt on quietly, and pulled back out onto the road. Silence reigned for a few miles, then, without taking his eyes off the road, he murmured quietly, "Sorry, slayer. That's all." He leaned forward and turned on the stereo, cluttering the car with a blur of colliding sound like so many screens. 

  
  


Some time later - long enough for the outer edges of her tension to have been lulled smooth by the rumble of the car; short enough for Spike to have kept his word and only opened his mouth to softly sing a few lines to the stereo - he turned the music down again to ask, "Any idea where we should be heading?"

"Not LA. Angel's running too."  _ Oh god - Faith.  _ She'd be okay. Surely. She wasn't slow to be suspicious of people, to lash out if they encroached on her personal space.   


At the mention of Angel, Spike chuckled quietly, a satisfied grin on his face, but wisely - miraculously - didn't offer any commentary. Sobering slightly, he told her, "San Francisco-way is just as bad. I figure we head to Sequoia forest tonight. But we should fill up the tank first."

Sequoia National Park. She'd been there on field trips from LA with her class, long day trips to sketch the giant trees and look for birds or mosses or whatever they were supposed to be studying.   


"How far is it?" she asked. Two or three hours northeast from LA; it must be reasonably close to Sunnydale, too.   


"'Bout three hours. Town coming up soon, then we'll be in Los Pedros Forest. Less populated from there."

"We can’t stay in Los Pedros?"   


"Too open. Anyone around would spot us - scent us - in no time. And we'd best cross to the forest chain while the developments are still fresh; might not be so easy in twenty-four hours."

She was quiet for a minute, wanting to push him to find somewhere closer to Sunnydale, but all the usually helpful suggestions her brain was offering were no longer an option.  _ Motel. Backpackers. Homeless shelter.  _ Where was a demon refugee shelter when you needed one? "What do you mean?" she asked eventually.

He pressed his lips together briefly before answering. "Things are all over the place tonight. Civil war's just been declared, mob violence in the streets. Tomorrow, day after, that's when the real danger starts. Easy targets will be gone, people will start organising themselves to hunt us down in earnest. Militia groups. Roadblocks. Anyone with a knack for firing up a crowd will be leading their own gang of bloodthirsty yobbos with guns, and-" he cut himself off, and took a breath before starting again. "It will get worse for trying to move anywhere. We need to slip through while disorder reigns."

"It won't last long," she said. "The others will solve it before it gets out of hand, and I'll need to get back quickly to help."

He shook his head slightly, more to himself than to her, and muttered under his breath, " _ Before it gets out of hand."  _ Shifting his hands slightly on the wheel, he said, "Maybe not. But I've seen where that sort of thinking gets people, pet. Six feet underground. Or a few inches of mud in a roadside ditch. Dragged from their homes to be shot in the streets, still protesting that they never thought things would go this far. Seen it in France, Spain, Germany. We've got tonight to get somewhere safer, if we're lucky, and we're grabbing that chance."

He'd spoken calmly, but with a low note of absolute seriousness that was chilling, coming from him. For all his reckless impulsiveness, Spike was a survivor, and for more than the strength of his fists.   


"When were you in Germany?" she asked quietly.   


"Early forties. Down through Europe those few years. Bad times."

Three hours wasn't far. They could be back in no time once they got the all-clear, or the call to help make it happen. "How are we going to get gas?" she asked.

  
  


They slowed as they approached a gas station on the outskirts of Mira Monte, then sped up and flashed past it when the crowd on the forecourt came into sight. Not that one, then.

There were people out everywhere on the streets of the town as they drove into it; small, loose groups of mismatched civilians, people striding about on their own, once, what looked like an entire hiking club in their uniforms. Children and their parents, holding hands and carrying torches. Many of them splattered with gore, faces smeared with blood. One man with his bloodied arm hanging limp at his side, gashes from a set of large claws running almost the length of it; he was paying it no mind as he gnawed at something held in his other hand.   


Spike turned the car off down a side street when a larger group appeared ahead, driving slower now, smooth and calm, just another passing vehicle on this busy night, but the muscles in his cheeks were clenched tight. She shrank down in her seat, certain someone would look straight through the paint-smeared glass of the DeSoto's windows and see the two of them for what they were.

"What do we do if they try to stop us?" she asked in a near-whisper.   


"Don't let them," he whispered back.   


They turned left, right, left again, rolled along a narrower suburban street. The main highway was visible between houses on their right, running parallel to the road they were on; the first two streets that ran down to it held humans with torches shining about. The third held a burning car, throwing dancing shadows over the feast going on beside it. The bodies of the demons who must have been in the car were spread across the street, unidentifiable now as the good townspeople of Meiners Oaks tore chunks of flesh from them greedily.   


The next connecting street was clear, probably thanks to the draw of the slaughter they'd just passed, and they turned down it quietly, made a left onto the highway, and accelerated quickly north towards the hills of Los Pedros. Spike let out the breath he'd been holding, and she took a deep, steadying one and echoed his sigh.

"We'd better swap before the next town," Spike said quietly. "Much as I don't fancy you driving my car, least you can run the bastards over if you have to." His jaw tightened again, that low, simmering anger at the disability of the chip never far beneath the surface.   


"Um… I can’t," she admitted uncomfortably.

"Sure you can. They're trying to kill you, slayer, not the time to get all stuck up about the sanctity of human life."

"No, I mean, I can't drive."

He turned his head to look at her incredulously. "You can’t drive?"   


She shook her head. "Nope."

"You, who can hit a fleeing vamp in the dark at a hundred feet with an idly thrown stake and dust it every time, can't work out how to steer an automatic car?"

"Sorry?" she offered, flushing slightly. "I mean, I tried to learn… it didn’t end well."

" _ Fuck!" _ he growled, slapping the steering wheel with one palm. He took a short breath and hissed it out through his teeth, then started tapping his fingers against the wheel. "Can you read a map, at least?" he asked shortly.

"Of course I can read a map," she grumbled, tetchy at stupid vampires and their stupid insinuations and yes maybe she should have tried again to learn but how was she to know she'd ever have to sneak a giant flashy tank of a car through a hoard of humans who wanted to eat her.

“Good. Glove box. Maps for the whole state. Take a look at our route, and start memorising every alternative and emergency detour.”

Glaring silently, she opened the glove box and pulled out a sheaf of maps.

  
  


**** x  
  


Buffy fidgeted again, pulling her towel tighter around her shoulders and rubbing her arms. Previous discussion over the temperature had ended with her insulting the car for not possessing a working heater, and him resolving to let her freeze in return. It was a reasonably warm night, but she wasn’t dressed to be out in it in a drafty vehicle, and the further they climbed into the mountains, the cooler it was getting.   


With a sigh, he reached into the back and grabbed his coat, dragging it over to the front seat. “Put it on,” he told her gruffly. “Only going to get colder.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a few seconds, as if she might reject it on principle. He gritted his teeth and looked away, at the scrubby hills rising up into the distance out of his side window, at the small river the road was following, counting out the seconds silently. She was wound up tight enough tonight to explode in any convenient direction, and he was determined not to pull the trigger with the barrel aimed his way. Much as he was loath to admit it, he needed her in this. When shit went sideways, as it almost inevitably would sooner or later, she'd defend him as well as she could. It was just the way she was.   


She took off her towel and picked up the coat, sliding her arms into it and tucking it closed around her folded up legs. The stiffness in her posture began to relax immediately, and he realised that part of what he'd attributed to mood was just the effect of the cold. Or of the cold on her mood. Stubborn bint must have known he had his coat somewhere, but she'd have to be naked in a blizzard before she’d let herself ask nicely for it.

"Thanks," she said quietly, surprising him.   


He glanced over at her and gave her a brief smile with closed lips. She shook the towel out, folded it up, and set it down on the seat between them.   


He grinned suddenly and snorted a soft laugh. " _ Don't Panic." _

She frowned, then the corners of her mouth turned up slowly. "First helpful or intelligible thing anyone's said to me all day," she quoted back, then dropped her head back against the seat and let out a small laugh.   


"Never picked you for a Douglas Adams fan," he said.

"I read," she retorted, but the dangerous note from earlier was gone, the reproof sparkling, just another parry in a familiar dance.   


" _ A towel, The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitch hiker can have, _ " he quoted, letting a note of upper-class toff slip into his voice. "Immensely practical. You can wrap it around you for warmth; use it to sail a raft down a river. Well done, pet."

"It was wrapped around my head," she said. "I'd just got out of the shower." Then, even though it couldn't possibly have been funny at all, she made a snicker that immediately turned into a full-bodied burst of laughter, giving in to it with total abandon. It swept across and pulled him in too, until they were both laughing like idiots, him watching the road out of the corner of his eye while he focused on her face. " _ Why are we laughing?" _ she asked before another giggle took her.   


"I don’t bleeding know," he chuckled. "You started it."   


The laughter faded fast, as it had to, but left the atmosphere that much warmer and calmer for it.   


He shook his head slowly. "World's gone round the bend," he said lightly. "Sometimes all you can do is laugh."

"I guess so," she said, throwing him another irony-laced grin. 

  
  


Leaving the north edge of the Los Pedros, they turned east and continued that way, avoiding the more direct route across the well-populated flatlands to hug as close as possible to the mountain ranges on their right. Buffy tracked their path on the map, while he chose each turn from the look of the road ahead and the instinctive sense of safety offered by the uninhabited mountains. The ranges swung around to the north eventually, becoming the bottom edge of the Sierra Nevada, and they followed them after an anxious dash across the plane.   


Finally they were nearing the last big highway crossing before the climb up into Sequoia Forest, and the issue of gas was nudging at him again as the needle dropped ever lower.   


"We've gotta fill the tank up somewhere," he told her. "Next quiet-looking station. I'll do the pump, you cover me, and we grab what we can."   


She pursed her lips tightly, but nodded.

The next petrol station was swarming with people, eight cars stopped with their doors left open as everyone clustered around one in the middle of the forecourt. He put his foot down.   


At the highway junction they found another one, empty of vehicles, still and quiet under flickering neon lights. He drove past it smoothly, then asked her, "Ready?"

She nodded tightly, sitting up straighter.   


"Don't you forget, slayer, they're coming to eat you. They won't hesitate," he warned.   


"I said I'm ready," she muttered quickly.   


He turned the car around and headed back to it.   


It was still quiet when he cut the engine and jumped out, and he found himself ducking to the height of the car as he grabbed the pump and threw it into place. In his mind's eye a shotgun blast from behind the counter was playing out in full technicolour, along with the gravelly voice the man holding it would have as he strolled out to their bullet-riddled bodies and told them how delicious they looked.   


"I can’t see anyone inside," Buffy whispered, coming around to his side of the car. "Pass me your wallet and I'll go and try to pay as soon as it's full."

"Haven't got a wallet," he said. "And I wouldn't go in there."

"We can’t just steal it!" she hissed.   


He dug into his pocket and passed her the handful of notes he'd brought. Worthless to him right now in any case. "You get in trouble in there, you're on your own, right? I'm not hanging about."   


The pump clicked off as it hit full, and she strode off to pay without answering.   


By the time he'd shut the petrol cap and restarted the engine she was coming back, hurrying but not quite fleeing.   


"He's dead," she said, jumping back into the car. "The worker. On the floor. I left the money on the counter."

"We're not the only ones running," he said. He got as far as the exit, then did a U-turn and went back, pulling up level with the doors. "Get some food. Whatever you can grab."

"I'm not going to-"

"Starve. You're not going to starve. Not having you bloody eyeing me up, and we're not stopping again. Hurry up."   


She didn't move for a moment, biting her lip as she thought it over. He drummed his fingers impatiently, then shifted, ready to give up and drive off again. Stupid risk to be taking anyway.   


"Wait for me," she snapped, and swung her door open quickly.   


Eyeing the still-empty road beside them, he put the handbrake on slid across the bench seat to follow her. There were baskets beside the entrance, and he grabbed a couple, throwing one at her with a bark of her name. "Use this," he told her. "Sweep the shelves."  _ Anyone'd think you've never looted before. _

Hopping the counter, he grabbed cartons of smokes, a few pocket knives from a display case, and - score - a bottle of bourbon that was hidden beneath it. The snackfood display from the countertop filled the basket, and he snatched whatever else he could carry on his way to the door. "Let’s go, pet," he called, then tossed his haul over into the back seat and slid behind the wheel.   


She followed him out, glancing back over her shoulder uncomfortably as she got in the car. "We'll get mom to send them payment for the rest," she said. "I'll tell her when I call."

And there went his burst of excitement. He kept his mouth shut, watching the road intently as they pulled out onto it, triple checking the mirrors for anyone following. When he risked a glance her way, she was watching him nervously, waiting for something. Looking to him for something. The expression seemed wrong on her face.

"Yeah," he said. "We'll do that."

  
  


Half an hour later they were well in the forest, and soon going to have to decide where to stop. The further in, the better, in his opinion; all the way through to Canada didn't sound like such a bad idea, actually. But that'd require more gas, and he had a feeling they'd just used a lifetime worth of luck on that front. Past the lake, then. Into the start of the true deep, wide wilds, where they could hide the car and easily outrun anything on foot. The roads in here were narrow-looking, walled in by trees, and it'd be an easy task to fell a couple and block anyone from passing in a vehicle. He kept his eyes on the furthest tip of the headlight's beams, and didn't relax until he'd coaxed the car off the road and up over a small ridge to put it out of sight.   


"What now?" Buffy asked.   


"Now… we walk."


	4. Love's got teeth and it bites so hard

**** +  
  


The cave was half an hour's hike from where they'd hidden the car; too close to human activity for Spike’s liking, too far from it for hers. Too close to the bear warning sign for her, too far from his precious car for him. The entrance faced north, and she couldn’t even see the sky through the tree cover. It would have to do for the day. Once they'd found it, they doubled back to the car to take up some supplies, including a dusty old floppy rug Spike produced from the trunk.   


"It's a bed," he said in answer to her look. "An' it's mine." He held it to his chest as if she might decide to fight him for it.

She rolled her eyes and walked off ahead, swinging her gas station basket. Taking the basket itself had been accidental, but she couldn’t regret it now.   


For the first hour, it wasn't so bad. The cave had a small mouth, like a three-foot-high door, then widened inside to about the size of her bedroom. There were no bears. Spike had crawled in first to double-check.   


She sat in the doorway and ate a bag of looted chips, wondering if they tasted better because she hadn't paid for them, or if she was just that hungry. Remembering that she hadn't eaten all day, she decided she was just that hungry, and not falling prey to the lure of outlaw life after all. Remembering the dead gas station attendant she'd edged past to leave with them, the enjoyment vanished, and she finished off the packet out of dull necessity.   


Still, the cave floor was dry, she was warm enough in Spike’s coat, and despite the raw, bruised feeling to her feet, she'd somehow managed to avoid actually damaging them with all of this barefoot hiking. Tomorrow she'd find a safe phone to call home on, confirm it was time to head back, then have a long hot bath before finally sitting down to a peaceful meal with her mother.   


Then reality began to intrude. Morning was hours away. The ground was hard, even through her towel. Her feet were tired. It was a  _ really _ dark night out here. She wanted a drink, but didn't want to walk the ten minutes to the closest stream to get one. She'd reached the point where the novelty of sleeping in a tent in the backyard wore off and it was time to abandon ship and run back inside for hot cocoa and her own bed. She didn't want to be Xena anymore.   


They ought to have a campfire, at least, something to watch and be warm by and see with and almost be like living company. But Spike insisted the smoke would be seen for miles, and even though she knew he was right, she was still going to blame him for it. After casting around for something to do, she organised the contents of her basket into tidy rows. No drinks; why hadn't she thought to grab a can of coke at least?   


Complaining to Spike was out; he'd already mocked her for wasting time and space on the first aid shelf instead of grabbing more food.  _ We're not going to need bandaids, you daft chit. They catch us, there won't be anything left to bandage. _   


She'd shaken the box of ibuprofen at him and said,  _ I'll need these soon enough, mister, for the migraine you're giving me. _   


He'd cocked his head in pretended interest and asked,  _ Think they work preemptively?  _ He knew they wouldn't; he'd cleaned out Giles's bathroom cupboard before deciding nothing there worked any better than alcohol.   


Basket arranged and rearranged, she was bored again. Spike lay on his back on his precious rug, hands linked behind his head, feigning sleep. She was making too much noise for it to be anything else.   


"I'm going to get a drink," she announced. Nothing. She walked over to him, and thought about poking him in the ribs with her toes. Just as she shifted her weight to do so, he opened one eye to glare at her.

"I heard you," he said. "You need my permission now or summat?"

"No," she grumbled, and stomped off.

At the stream she thought she heard something rumble in the distance, and crouched down instinctively, wondering how the familiar sounds of humanity and safety had come to mean  _ danger! _ in the space of a single evening. A few seconds later, she realised it was the chugging call of a frog, and chided herself for paranoia. All the same, she drank quickly and hurried back.   


Spike had claimed her spot in the doorway, smoking and watching the dark trees. He smiled hesitantly as she approached, eyes betraying more anxiousness than he probably meant for her to see. Was she really that scary right now? Or was he worried he was going to say the wrong thing and she'd storm off for good, leaving him defenceless? Either way, there was something wrong about seeing  _ Spike  _ look at her like that. He'd never been this worried any of the times she'd been inches away from staking him. She supposed the threat of being eaten was somewhat more disturbing than any she'd ever dished out. Hit by a strange pang of sympathy for the usually-cocky pest, she smiled back and sat down a short distance away.

"Been thinking about phones," he said, butting out his cigarette. "There's ranger stations out here, over towards the tourist areas. Reckon we could hike over to one tomorrow, see if you can't sneak in."

"Or tonight?" she asked hopefully.   


He shook his head. "Only end up stumbling in circles in the dark. Should get some rest, recharge, head out with a map and more light tomorrow so's we don't lose the way back to the car."

She sighed quietly. He was probably right, but she hated not knowing what was going on back home, or being able to let them know she was safe. "Okay," she said sadly. "What do we do until then?"   


"Go get some rest, slayer, you look knackered. I'll keep watch; been asleep half the day anyway."   


She frown-pouted; he could at least have the decency to lie about how she looked. Not that she cared what he thought. Not at all. It was just another reminder of how not ready to run off and become a cave person she was. That prompted another thought, and she smiled down at her lap. "You ever hear about the cave-Buffy beer incident?" she asked, turning her eyes to him.   


"No…" he said, something like amusement already sneaking onto his face.   


"Neanderthal-Buffy. It was a thing. I hit Parker with a club."   


He laughed, a warm, appreciative, honest sound, nothing like their moment of mutual insanity in the car earlier. "Good for you, pet," he said, still chuckling slightly. "That's bloody brilliant, that is. I'm sorry I missed it."

She waved a hand. "It was just after the gem incident. Probably best you weren't around." The thought came a moment too late; had he already been in the Initiative's custody that night?   


"That was some fight," he said fondly, gazing off into the trees with a wistful expression. "Middle of the quad in the California sun…" His face fell slowly, all his seemingly-irrepressible liveliness draining away into a weary melancholy. "Can't believe I had the stones for it," he said quietly.   


She didn't know if this openness was due to new familiarity born of hours running and hiding equally, or if Spike was feeling so disillusioned by the night's events that caring what the slayer thought of him was no longer a priority. But either way, for the second time tonight she found herself feeling for him. Shared injustice, maybe. Even if he was being hunted by his old prey, while for her they were the people she worked to protect.   


"Right up until I took that stone from you," she said, smirking slightly. She lifted her chin with playful haughtiness. "See, Spike, you might have had the mystical-unbeatable-doohickey, but you forgot something - I  _ always  _ win. It's like the secret rule of the universe. And since you're on my team this week, I guess you got lucky."

He looked over at her, searching her face quickly before his softened into a light smile. "Yeah. Reckon I did. Now get yourself to bed so we can do some of that winning tomorrow."

  
  


**** x  
  


From the edge of the clearing, he watched Buffy approach the back door of the Ranger's Station and knock several times, tucking her hair behind one ear and smoothing a crease in her pants. They'd watched the place from cover for as long as she could stand, him feeling like a bleeding hypocrite as he tried to explain the very sensible reasons they should aim for stealth instead of just knocking out anyone who happened to be around to attack them.  _ Time and a place, pet. Unless you want to keep moving until we hit Alaska, best no one knows we're here. And don't go telling your lot exactly where we are, either.   
_

No one answered her knock, and after trying the door handle, she glanced back to check in with him before moving to the window and testing it. No dice. Looking down at the doormat, she lifted it to check underneath, then felt around the step and the top edge of the frame. Another glance back at him, then she looked up at the underside of the porch roof and grinned. Stretching up to reach the end beam, she pulled down a key on a short string and swung it to show him proudly. Then she was slipping inside, and he turned his full attention to their surroundings.   


From back here he could see most of the way around the small building, and the hill behind the far side. The driveway was off to his left through the trees, and asides from this one small clearing and the narrow drive and road somewhere below, there was decent tree cover for miles in every direction. It was a good starting point to run from if they had to, and they should have enough warning of any approach that they'd be able to amble off almost casually. Playing lookout, that he could still do.

Birds sang, leaves rustled in a breeze. Snatches of her voice drifted to him (she'd found a phone, then), robbed of words by the distance, but the salient points clear from her tone. The problem wasn't solved. Everyone was worried about her. She didn't want them to worry. She missed them. She was putting on a brave face.

Quicker than he'd anticipated, she was locking the door again, carefully replacing the key, and hurrying across the clearing to join him. He turned to leave as soon as she drew up to him, and she followed him silently out of sight of the station before speaking.   


"They think it's something airborne. People must have been infected days before they… before we knew about it. Almost everyone in Sunnydale is, and for a couple of hours in every direction, but it's patchier beyond that. Cases wherever truckies go, and tourists, and mobile salesmen, et cetera."

"That’s everywhere."

She made a sound of unhappy agreement. "Faith got away. Broke out of prison last night, and got a message through this morning. The gang are taking antibiotics, antivirals, Willow and Tara have got some diagnostic spell to see whether either works, they're all staying indoors at mom's. There's talk of military support…"

"Support to stop the chaos, or for their efforts to catch dinner?"

"Yeah," she said gloomily. "There's unofficial roadblocks across the state. Anyway, they said to stay hidden and wait it out. And they'll sort out payment for the stuff from the gas station. Mom says hi. She was glad I'd found you."

He smirked. "You'd hardly have got this far without me." God, he felt like such a desperate cunt.  _ Look, slayer, I've got a car. Look, I can watchdog and sit pretty and beg for you not to throw me to the wolves. _   


Buffy shook her head. "She was glad you hadn't been eaten. And that we've both got-" she blushed slightly- "a 'friend' to rely on."

Huh. Joyce was a decent sort. Felt kinda nice to know someone had spared a thought for him. And so was this one, for that matter. She hadn't had to warn him when she did; could've told herself he could look after himself and carried on with her job. "That what we are?" he asked her cautiously. "This week? Still gonna ea- drain the blood from your broken body soon as I get this chip out, mind."

"Somehow, that image has kind of lost its gross factor," she said, laughing a little. "And I'd like to see you try, buster." Her eyes flashed with a spark of keen energy; she  _ would  _ like to see him try, to pit herself against him in a real fight again at last. Matching blows with an equal opponent excited her as much as it did him, even if she'd never admit to it. She glanced him over, then seemed to come to a decision. "Yeah, Spike. This week."

Woulda rankled once, to feel grateful for an agreement of friendship with the slayer. But that was yesterday, before the world turned upside down and inside out. If the happy meals were hunting him down for dinner then why the hell shouldn't he be best buddies with his sworn enemy; it only fitted the pattern. "Good," he said lightly. "Cause I suppose all my other friends have been eaten."

She stopped walking. "Oh god. They have, haven't they?" Her face was stricken, big green eyes suddenly full of distressed apology.

"What do you care?" he asked, giving her a puzzled look. "Upset you didn't get to them first?" He waved a hand at her in a 'forget it' gesture. "None of those wankers were friends of mine, pet. Serves the tossers right."

"But you must have…" she trailed off with a small frown, probably realising she'd never seen him with anyone else in all the times they'd crossed paths this summer. Hell, lately he'd spent more time with her than all the rest of Sunnydale's nightlife put together, bickering over who'd got in whose way as she vented her anger over soldier boy's abandonment and he searched for a spot of fun to break the boredom.   


"Hunting your own kind don't exactly lead to making friends," he told her dryly. "Come on, roll those pants up."

They'd reached the nearest creek again, and he toed off his boots and folded the cuffs of his jeans up to his knees, ready to walk the next mile through the water. No way of knowing just how well they could be scented by any humans out exploring, but he wasn't taking chances, and they'd done the same along all three waterways on their way to the ranger station. If she wouldn't entertain the thought of moving further north, they needed to focus on staying hidden.

Buffy wrinkled up her nose, but again stubbornly resisted the urge to complain as she stepped into the cool water. She'd been calmly deferring to his lead on how they should move to avoid detection; not without considering each instruction for herself before complying, but accepting that she was well out of her comfort zone and being willing to accede to his greater experience when she could see the sense in it.

A moment later she relaxed and bent over to rub her hands across the tops of her feet. "It's actually kind of nice now," she admitted. "My feet were killing me."

"I know," he said, feeling oddly generous. She'd been limping slightly all morning in that tender-footed way, but so far she'd swallowed her complaints. Which meant he'd had to do the same if he didn’t want to be shown up by this stubborn little city girl with the rapidly wearing pedicure. She had cute little feet, really. Supple and graceful, even when they were obviously in need of a massage. He sniffed sharply and started walking again, suddenly needing to get away from them. 

  
  


Back at the cave, he drank the last of the blood he'd brought with him, then stretched out on the rug to sleep the afternoon away in lazy almost-repletion.   


Buffy sat down in the doorway and kicked her heels. "I can’t sleep on there again," she said after a minute. "I can still feel the ground digging into my spine. Maybe I should try the car if we have to stay here tonight."

_ Tonight, tomorrow night, the one after.  _ She was kidding herself if she thought everything would be back to normal anytime soon. But he didn't want to think about that either.

"Too close to the road," he mumbled. "And damn straight you can’t sleep here. This is my bed. Go find some leaves and make your own."

"I am  _ not _ making some kind of leaf-bed," she said indignantly. "I'll wait until midnight, then go down there."

"And when they sneak up on you asleep, you can scream nice and loud to let me know to stay tucked up in my nice safe den."

"They're people, Spike. People sleep at night. They're not going to go poking around the side of the road in the middle of nowhere in the dark."

"If you say so." No, had to try and drill home the potential seriousness of all this. He rolled over to brace his head on one hand and look at her properly. "We'll hardly be the only ones who thought to bolt up here. Place is probably crawling with beasties on the run. Humans will sort out the mess in the cities soon enough, catch what can be caught, then they'll start probing their way into the wilderness to hunt out the last of us. Just like they did to every other interesting creature once called California home. We'll be like that last wolf, emaciated and three-legged when they finally trap us in a lonely corner of the forest." He dropped his head back to the ground, point forgotten and no longer seeming important. It'd be one of his legs missing from the four they had between them. He was already metaphorically lame, vulnerable, feeling weakened by the disgusting diet of pig's blood as much as he was by the chip itself. Maybe that wolf had been ditched by its pack when they fled to Canada, too useless for them to bother taking along.

Buffy said nothing, unsettled and sullen but lacking any retort. He rolled over to face the cave wall and tried to go to sleep. 

  
  


The cave was silent, snapping him to instant alertness. Ears pricked intently, he padded over to the doorway and looked out. The light was dropping, heading towards evening; he must have crashed out after all. No sign of Buffy. He crawled outside and stood listening, scenting, eyes scanning the surrounding forest, attention jumping from birdsound to windblown branch to a dragonfly darting past. No Buffy. She wouldn't have ditched him. Not without some final cutting remark. She wouldn't sneak away. Not her.   


He ran a hand through his hair in mingled anxiety and anger, about ready to risk attracting the wrong kind of attention by calling for her. Then something small hit him on the head, and he almost leapt out of his skin.

"You thought I'd left, didn't you?" she snarled overhead somewhere, real anger in her voice.   


He looked up and around wildly, searching the branches in the direction of her voice. A second later he spotted her, ducking under a branch to scramble down towards the ground.

"Didn’t you?" she demanded again as soon as her feet touched the forest floor.   


"No," he sneered at her, and knew in a strange twisty way that it was true; that hadn’t been the possibility he was worried about.   


"So why did you look like that?" she shot back, marching over, eyes flashing fire and ready to leap from verbal blows to physical ones.   


She was gorgeous like this, all indignant fury and sharpened claws, a burst of blazing fire in the dim forest light. An insane urge to grab hold of her and slam his lips to hers surged up in his brain-   


-and something smashed through his consciousness like she'd hit him with a sledgehammer. He stumbled back a step and spat out, "Yes, I thought you'd fucked off on me." Then he turned around and ran. 

  
  


_ No. No, no, no. _ It was just dependence, Stockholm syndrome, the effect of the latest weirdness on the vampire brain. The chip, some delayed new ability of it… conditioning, a classic Pavlovian response to repeated electric shocks. Drooling where fangs were no longer an option. He was  _ not _ in- Was not, would not, could not. Not with the slayer. Not with  _ her. _

She'd followed him, of course, hanging back when he gave up running, watching him across fifty yards of forest floor. Didn't need to look - could feel her eyes on him. He could run until he dropped and she'd still be there, right in front of him, all around him, consuming him- no, cancel that one. Hell, this was even worse. Inside of him, flashing her fiery way through his brain, burning away the curtains to scorch everything in the sun, dazing him, but not dazzling, oh no, he'd  _ been  _ blind, all this time, and now everything was too damn clear and visible.

"Spike?" she asked behind him, confused, more than a little concerned.   


He wouldn’t look. He couldn't let this bolt of complete insanity hook onto the sight of her face. He heard her moving closer slowly, her breath calmer than his after that brief mad dash through the forest; he could smell her on the air, her scent drifting ahead of her on the breeze, his ragged panting only drawing her inside further. He caught his breath and held it. _How long have I been breathing you?_ God, Dru had known, she'd told him and he hadn't listened, warned him the slayer was floating all around him, and now he'd swallowed her all inside. She was in his every smallest hidden corner, wound through his nerves like razor wire, powdered glass from every drink. Oh, he was so utterly fucked.

"Are you okay?" she asked in that same voice.

He would look. There was no point pretending otherwise. He closed his eyes for a second and gulped, more of her scent diffusing in the saliva in his throat. Then he turned around slowly to face what he knew without a shadow of a doubt would be the end of him.  _ Buffy. _   


His face must have shown his terror; her eyes widened, and she stopped moving closer.  _ Too late!  _ he wanted to scream. So bloody far too late. Her hair shifted slightly with the sweep and lull of the breeze, all golden and shining and floating about her face, her gorgeous face that had taunted him and sparked him and teased him all summer, all year, ever since he'd first picked up the challenge she threw down with those glittering eyes, and this wasn't some carnal thing of his eyes and his crotch, if-fucken-only, this was wanting to pour poetry on her satin skin from something that suddenly lived between the two.   


"What's wrong?" she asked very quietly.   


He raised his hands and dropped them back to his sides, saying goodbye to everything. "I'm in love with you," he told her in a strangely normal voice. Then he waved off whatever she was opening her mouth to say, and walked past her and back to the cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoying? Leave a comment, let me know 💙


	5. Splashing in the ocean

  
  


**** +  
  


Buffy opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, then gave up and took a deep breath instead. Spike was still striding away from her intently, head down, hands in his pockets. Possibly muttering to himself under his breath.  _ I've gone completely round the bend  _ seemed like the only answer to her hanging questions. Round the bend and out for lunch. She toyed with her lip, wondering if she should follow or give the clearly unhinged vampire some space. The last thing they -  _ she  _ \- needed was an outburst of shouting to attract attention. Space, then.   


She took her time walking, only to get back to the cave and find it empty. For a second she thought he might have left - headed straight for the car and stranded her out here - but the keys were still sitting on the wall ledge inside. Lacking anything else to do, she began hauling in the pine branches she'd collected earlier and stripping them down to make a bed on the opposite corner of the cave from his. An hour later she had a pile three feet high, and hands that were hopelessly tacky with resiny sap. Every time she relaxed her fingers they would stick together again, and her skin felt all dry and tight underneath.   


She was doing her best to wipe the stuff off on the trunk of a tree when Spike reappeared, glared at her from a distance, then turned around and walked off again. Curling her sticky hands into fists, she imagined running after him to see whether the sap would transfer with a punch to the face. She didn't need him around anyway. Or his stupid rug. Her bed put it to shame.   


Her bed was kind of cold, though; she probably should have focused less on pretty greenness and more on brown dryness when choosing branches. It had to be fixed. Before someone else pointed this out to her. He'd get his head screwed on eventually, wouldn't he? People - and vampires, apparently - sometimes lost the plot when they were tired and stressed, and went back to normal once they'd calmed down. He just needed to sulk out there for a bit. It was getting dark, though. Not that that was a problem for him. Or her. But she should fix her bed.   


Collecting armloads of dry pine needles took her another half hour, and she was levelling them off nicely on her bed when she felt him approaching. She sat down quickly, then lay down with her hands behind her head to look at the ceiling, ruing the fact that she couldn’t believably feign sleep to his ears.   


He stood outside of the door for so long that she almost gave up and stomped out there, except that it was hard to stomp successfully through a three-foot-high hole in the bottom of the wall. She could do it, she was sure. But then he moved closer and ducked down to come in, so she fixed her eyes on the ceiling again instead.   


"Look," he said roughly, waving something in his hand, "can we forget about earlier? Temporary breach in sanity?"   


She sat up, crossing her legs underneath her. "Are you over it?" She'd meant the insanity, but now that she thought about it, it was just as pertinent for his weird declaration. She never held interest for long anyway; may as well set a new record for brevity.   


He smiled slightly, a dark, hateful look directed at the wall. "Yeah. Here."   


He tossed the thing in his hand to her, and she caught it instinctively before frowning at it in confusion. It was almost dark in the cave already, but the thing looked and felt like a peeled potato with one side wrapped in coconut hair.   


"It's soap," he said gruffly. "For your hands." Then he lay down on his rug and faced the wall.   


She thought she recognised it now. Soaproot. They'd washed their hands with it another long-ago field trip, while a teacher droned on about native Americans and early settlers using it and someone in her class had asked,  _ Were they hippies or something? _

She looked from the root to Spike and back, unstuck her fingers from each other again, and decided to let pretend-sleeping demons lie and go wash her hands.   


After being pounded with a rock - perhaps a little more than was strictly necessary, but hey, she was only being thorough - the soaproot lathered up thickly, and slowly began to free the worst of the sap. Several handfuls of sandy stuff from the bottom of the creek eventually scoured off the rest (and maybe some skin with it). She rinsed her hands a final time, then straightened up and watched the water flowing around her ankles. The goosebumps on her arms were threatening to turn into shivers. She was tired, and mud-smeared, and hungry, and suddenly feeling very alone. And unloved. What the hell was Spike even playing at earlier? She didn't want to think about it. Add it to that steadily growing list. He'd better not talk to her when she went back.   


He didn't. It was too dark now to see if he was still facing the wall, but there wasn't a sound from him as she crawled inside, only the prickle on the back of her neck letting her know he was there. Could he see her in this non-light? Considering that she couldn’t see her hands on the floor in front of her, she doubted it, but she thought she ought to know. Feeling her way across to her bed, she felt something soft on top of it, and jerked her hand back before realising that a) it was his coat, and b) he wasn't in it. After a moment's deliberation the cold won the argument, and she slipped it on before wriggling down into the pine needles.   


Warmth softened her mood slightly. Maybe she should thank him. It might encourage more decorum.  _ Buffy, the vampire trainer.  _ Or maybe it would only give him the idea that she was fine with random panic attacks over imagined feelings. He might be asleep. The dark was so  _ dark,  _ oppressive and thick, tricking her eyes into seeing things moving like clouds of dust.

The not-knowing whether he was asleep or watching her silently gnawed away at her until she couldn't stand it any longer. "Thank you," she said into the air.   


She heard him make a tiny movement, a twitch of surprise probably, then the silence swelled back until he said, "Welcome." His voice had the slightest note of gravelly lispiness to it, and a few seconds later she made the connection - he had his bumpies on.  _ All the better to see you with, _ probably.   


She rolled over and pretended to be asleep. 

  
  


**** x  
  


The slayer's breath evened out as she nodded off, and he drew in a long slow one of his own at last. Wasn't hiding from her. Just didn't seem wise to open his mouth again tonight if he could avoid it. Was hiding from the world and everyone in it, self included. His batty, barmy self. Funny how those rhymed with her name. Alliterated, too. Perhaps he should have searched for the poem in her when he'd first heard the moniker, and taken it as the warning it obviously was.  _ That's not where her poetry lies, _ his unhelpful brain supplied _ . _ Jesus fuck, this was bad. Perhaps he could knock her off quickly, before it got in any deeper. Plenty of manslaughter options out here. Sniff out a bear to point her feet onto, or a mountain lion, something that would rip her to bits and then leave the bits for him to drain the scraps from. Flush her out of his system with a gush of her blood.   


She'd probably just kill the bear though; she had last time. Man, she'd be something fighting a mountain lion. Both of them golden and graceful, rippling with power and fierce determination. Oh jesus, this was so bad.

Could go outside. Rail at the stars. Denounce whatever sick fucks up there thought they'd get their kicks by watching him squirm. See if they'd get their wrath on and stomp him into the ground at last. Probably just send their minions in though, a group of pissant little humans to gobble him up. A boy scout brigade, or vacationing family. Mum, dad, two kids and a labrador. No doubt they knew by now how to not dust their dinner until they were ready to. Slayer was going to have an easy time of it when she got back. She could probably take a vacation herself. She wouldn't like that for long, though. Two days, three tops, then she'd be crawling out of her skin for something to fight. They had that in common, that drive to hunt, the thrill in the bloodlust.   


_ Stop thinking. Just go to sleep. She has. _ They hadn't seen hide nor hair of anyone out here, human or otherwise; dozing should be safe enough. Safer than being awake next to her. Pine needles were a nice touch. Cave now smelt like a Christmas tree plantation with a bottle of essential oil poured on top. Could almost imagine it drowned out the scent of her, except that it didn't. Looked damn comfy too; would consider mimicking the idea, if she hadn't done it first and he hadn't made a point about his rug. Bloody thing smelt like her now too; should never have let her get away with napping on it last night. Least she wouldn't be doing it again anytime soon. Surprised she'd talked to him at all this evening with anything other than her fists. Must be lonelier than he'd thought. Poor thing. Fuck.   


Must be the time of night making this hard; it was barely full dark, time to be getting up, not nodding off. Don't matter how exhausted your body is, your brain still knows. Better get used to it for the next few days anyway - she was right about human visitors being less likely in the dark, and the trees made it easy to be out during the day.   


He slept in fits and starts, chased by dreams and nightmares where she smiled at him before sprouting tiny fangs and biting his lip, his jaw, sliding down to his neck.  _ I'm hungry,  _ she murmured in them,  _ and I only want you.  _ He woke up hard every time, panting shallowly with mingled lust and fear. Gripped the edge of the rug to stop himself giving in to the lure of his aching cock, to letting the fantasy play out consciously. Finally he got up and sat outside, smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes and hoping they'd dull his nose.

  
  


**** +  
  


Spike was tense and tetchy, brusque and business-like. He kept his eyes studiously away from her face, and agreed with a curt nod when she said they should hike back to the phone for an update. What they really needed was a good punch-up to clear the air, but whaling on him one-sidedly wasn't going to do anything to help, so the more mundane exercise of walking would have to try and suffice.   


They walked fast, not talking this time, and by some unspoken agreement picked up the pace until they were running the last couple of miles. Stopping on the hill behind the ranger station to catch her breath, she found herself feeling lighter again, and suspected he felt the same, even if he still wasn't looking at her. Screw him. She pulled a couple of leaves free of her hair, then walked up to the building.   


The key was still in the same place, and there was no evidence of anyone having been here since yesterday. She looked around the interior more speculatively than she had last time; there were two beds along one wall, but they were empty of bedding. A small bookshelf of paperbacks; perhaps she should pick a couple out. Beyond that and the phone on the wall, the place was pretty much bare. Phone first. Then books.

The others had news; progress, of a kind. The Hunger, as everyone was apparently calling it now, affected everyone who'd been in a four hundred mile radius of Sunnydale on a date six months prior. Their new neighbours across the road were unaffected, and deeply disturbed by it all. The cases beyond California, Nevada, Arizona, had turned out to all be people who had been in the right area back then. It wasn't spreading, or if it was, they could have six months up their sleeve before it showed.   


"The Initiative," she said. "It has to be." Crazy scientists, middle of the epicentre… she'd seen enough movies.   


"That is rather our thinking," Giles agreed. "We're heading down there shortly."   


_ I should be there. _ Giles ran over their plans, and agreed to her suggested alterations with a  _ very good  _ and  _ of course. _ He knew exactly how much she was rankled by not being able to lead them. How guilty she felt for her utter uselessness at stopping this.   


"Have you managed to get hold of Riley?" she asked.   


"Not in person. Willow was able to ascertain that all of the ex-Initiative men have been recalled from their new postings and are being held in a secure location for questioning. They're affected too, of course, and the army is as keen to solve this as the rest of us. That's why we're determined to get down there this morning, while it's still possible." He lowered his voice and spoke closer to the handset, "They've got roadblocks, checkpoints set up, on every highway and detour. Anyone who smells other than completely human is executed immediately. Do  _ not _ try to move from wherever you are if that would take you near people. There's talk of hunting parties- Joyce!" he said loudly. "Yes, just a minute. Buffy, if you have to go anywhere, make it north and away from the roads. If we don't hear from you, we'll assume you can’t access a phone, so don't worry about that."

_ No, you won't, you'll fuss and pace and worry about what could be happening, just like I am.  _ Her mother took the phone, and they'd just got past, "Are you eating healthy food? Not poisonous berries?" and into, "Remember to be firewise," when the crack of a gun report blasted outside.

"Gotta go," she hissed, and set the phone down quietly.   


The building only had windows on two sides - facing the driveway and road below, and either side of the single door on the back. With the booming of that sound through the air, the place suddenly became a stupid trap to be in, and after checking the windows and listening through the cracked door briefly, she bolted across the open ground and into the trees.   


The sound had been a little way off, but it was impossible to tell which direction it had come from. There was no sign of Spike when she'd looked out, or when she reached the bushes where she'd left him. He'd probably hightailed back to the cave, the asshole.   


She crouched down, listening hard, contemplating the options. It could be some other supernatural critter being hunted. Hell, it could be a deer, or a pig, or whatever people usually came out here to hunt. She should sneak away and leave them to it. It wasn't like he'd been great company this morning or anything.   


Another shot rang out, downhill and to the south somewhere, in the opposite direction to the cave. Running low, she headed towards it.   


She heard them before she saw them, calling to each other as they stalked through the forest. A little closer and she spotted them; four men in camo gear, looking like a regular hunting party, rifles in their hands and knives on their belts. They were scenting the air like hounds as they went, faces eager and intent, sure of success. Given the distance and the trees between each of them, they were lucky this wasn't an ambush. She could drop the guy on the far left in one silent dash right now, then pick off the others in turn. But they were people. She drew back again, then circled around, moving low and swift and keeping plenty of cover between her and them.   


She found herself sniffing for what they were picking up, but nothing was detectable beyond the endless piney smell of the trees. It wasn't even a smell anymore, just an obscuration of any other ones. Once she'd come around to the front of them and well ahead, she began edging closer again, listening hard in case they decided to rush forwards.

" _ Couldn't resist crashing the party, could you?" _ Spike hissed from a dip in the ground up ahead. His eyes flashed angrily as he ran back to her. "You were supposed to go back to the cave."

"According to who?" she growled, keeping her voice low.   


"The plan," he growled back.

"What  _ plan? _ You just ran off."   


As he was now, slinking down through the forest and beckoning her to hurry up. "Was leading them away. They came up too fast to warn you."

"And what if they'd caught you? Your fangs wouldn’t be any use against two barrels of lead even if you could use them!"   


He sneered at her. "They weren’t going to catch me. Think I can’t dodge a few stumbling humans now? Those fuckers would all be dead if I had this bloody chip out. 'Sides, they're rifles. Single shot. Easy as punch. Course, they could clip you easily enough now. Stick around, maybe they'll leave something behind for me to nibble on." His glare deepened, and he waved her forwards from beside him again. "Hurry up, for fuck's sake."

He wanted her in front of him, the stupid moody vampire. As if she needed protecting. "You hurry up," she shot back, and refused to take a single step ahead of his.

Clenching his jaw furiously, he bolted past her and down to a stream at the bottom of the hill, snarling back as she shadowed him, "You're a stubborn bitch, Summers."   


She rolled up her pants quickly while he did the same, then they waded down and around a few bends in the stream.   


"Come on," he said, stepping out of the water on the far side from where they'd entered it. "We get up higher, we can see whether they’re sniffing over the water. Might be wasting our time with all this getting wet."

They climbed quickly, up the slope and then back towards the north. The hunters came into sight, two on either side of the waterway, looking and sniffing their way along slowly.   


"How far could they smell you from?" she asked. He'd obviously been planning on taunting them to find out.   


"They followed the trail easily enough after they spotted me. Got a bit confused when I went too far ahead and zigzagged, and caught it again easily from thirty yards when I circled back. That was all I had time for before  _ someone  _ came along and busted the game."   


"I should have left you to them," she growled. Below, the men were looking disappointed, and soon stopped moving downstream to put their heads together in discussion. When she glanced over at the suddenly silent vampire beside her, he was watching her face curiously.   


"Yeah," he said quietly, glancing down the hill to break the contact. "You probably should have. Sorry, p- slayer. Just having a shitty day. Days. Shouldn't have taken it out on you."   


She blinked at him, possibly more disturbed by this change than his ridiculous statement of yesterday. He hadn't even been particularly snarky this morning; certainly no more than on plenty of other occasions. She should have asked Giles whether this infection or whatever it was had any effect on vampires.   


"Let’s go," he said, and she could only nod mutely.

  
  


**** x  
  


With extra attention given to hiding their trail, it was taking a lot longer to get back to the cave. Plenty of time to get everything in order. It had shaken him, her coming looking for him, though it hadn’t really been a surprise that she had. But the very genuine and unselfish concern on her face had been. Buffy  _ cared  _ about him. As the only person (friend? Still felt weird) she had out here certainly, but all the same, she cared. He had zero doubt that if he had been in any trouble, she'd have come in breathing fire to lay waste to his attackers furiously. The warmth of that knowledge outweighed any stung pride over the idea that humans could be a danger to him.

Maybe it wasn't such an insane concept, this splash of softer feelings for her. They made a brilliant team, already proven that a few times. Could work up an appetite out hunting together - patrolling, better call it - then burn it off in bed. She'd be magnificent. Abso-lutely fucking glorious. The way she moved in a fight, the sheer blazing passion of her… The scent of her two steps ahead of him was intoxicating, pheromone-laden sweat lightly glazing her skin, stronger than any drug. No wonder everyone wanted a taste. He ached to move closer, stop her in place, run his tongue from the small of her back up between her shoulder blades and around into the curve of her neck. Slip his hands around her from behind, rumble a purr into her ear. She'd headbutt him in the face.   


Or maybe not. Maybe she'd jump slightly in surprise, then melt into him, become soft and malleable against him, part her lips to let out a little moan of arousal as she felt his cock pressing against her pert little bum. She'd have to decide, then, whether to let herself have him or not, but her body would have chosen already, blood pumping faster and flooding to her secret places, hot and wet and throbbing for him. And when she did, when she chose to turn to him and pick up his challenge, she'd take him like the warrior she was, throw him to the ground and ride him into it mercilessly until she roared out her completion, and make him swear he was hers to do with as she wilt.

"Spike?"   


He jumped slightly himself. She was five yards ahead, frowning back at him curiously. "Nothing," he said quickly, and strode up to take the lead, hoping she didn't look lower, or that his duster would provide enough cover if she did. Because she  _ would  _ headbutt him in the face.   
  


"Cookie?" Buffy offered from her seat outside the cave, holding the bag up. Then she realised who she was offering them to and lowered it quickly.   


"What flavour?" he asked. Was only friendly of her, after all. What they'd agreed they were. Could enjoy a cookie if he wanted, dammit.   


"Uh… chocolate chip," she said, caught out by the question.   


"Alright."   


She held the bag up again slowly, extending it out of the small patch of dappled light that she sat in.

He took a cookie carefully and sat down a few feet away, where the light wouldn't shift to him if the wind blew. Everything had gone strange, off-kilter. He was probably just hungry. He bit the cookie.   


"I'm gonna have to find something to eat soon," he told her afterwards.   


"I've got beef jerky?" she offered.   


He rolled his eyes a little. "Not quite what I had in mind. But what flavour?"

"Very conditional with your acceptance, aren’t you?" she said, grinning. "Dunno. I hate the stuff. It's in the basket."

"We've really gotta work on your looting skills," he told her as he leaned through the door to grab the basket. "Did you skip the class on post-apocalypse survival in slayer school, or just fail it?"

"We're supposed to  _ stop _ apocalypses, not survive them. Win, or die trying. No looting required in either scenario." She sighed to herself, no doubt reminded again that she was doing neither of those out here, by her ridiculous standards.

And the prize for winning was living until the next fight. And the next. And the next. Until you lost. She never lost. She'd said so. Virtually promised it, in fact.   


Slayers lost all the time. You had to be quick, to get a shot at one before something else beat you to it. It was only the  _ idea _ of the slayer that never lost, the comfortable knowledge that there'd be another one rising immediately, the phoenix nature of them. But that was them, plural. Not Buffy. Oh god, he was in love with a mayfly. With a struck match in the blackness of the cave. Something that blazed with so much life because it was racing down its fuse. One day she'd slip up, make the wrong move, just give up for a second, and it would all be over. She'd be pale and cold and not in her anymore, but still in him, all aching and broken up inside. Oh god.   


"Spike...? What is going on with you this afternoon?" she asked, dubious, maybe uncertain if she really wanted to know, but needed to.   


He shook himself and looked over at her. "Nothing. Just getting hungry. Tired. Something." He picked up a packet of jerky. Chilli. Nice. "You must have got this for me," he jabbered, thinking to negate the insult to her looting choices, though he didn't know why. Off-kilter, still. Afternoon light not helping, things all feeling like a dream distortion.   


"No," she said reproachfully. "I got it for… protein."   


She'd probably eat one now to prove it. She probably should eat one. Cookies wouldn't fuel her for running and fighting. Mayflies didn't eat at all, in their one day of life in the sun. They didn't need to, because they'd soon be dead.   


"You didn’t really think you were in love with me yesterday, did you?" she asked, her voice a mix of too many things to tease apart. Nonchalance layered over the surface, anxiety underneath, god knew what else. Clear what she was hoping to hear, though.

"Fuck no," he said, sneering a little. "Hate your guts."  _ Hate your mortal, mayfly, torturous heart. _ It came out sounding honest. It was, in a sense.

"Phew," she said, relaxing. "Because that would have been too freaky, even for you, Spike. Plus, then you'd probably have left, like every other guy, and I still need a ride home." Her voice sounded brittle towards the end.   


"I don’t leave," he growled. "Not ever. That's not love." He stood up, a jitter under his skin jabbing at him to get away from all this. "I'm going to look for something to eat."

She jumped up too, retorts clearly on her tongue, but didn't try to follow. "You'd better not eat Bambi!" she called out after him.   


He paused, then bit his lip and carried on. 


	6. I thought you were a real lifesaver (and life for once would do me a favour)

** x  
**

Bambis were too hard to catch. They'd seen a few since they'd been here, bolting off in the distance at the sight or sound or smell of them, and it didn’t take too long to track one down now and turn on the stealth to sneak up on it. From what may as well have been a mile away it heard him, or sensed him somehow, and took off in a drumming of hooves. So did the second one. Damn things were fast.   


He ran his fingers through his hopelessly messy hair again, suddenly very glad she hadn't come along to watch him pretend he knew what he was doing. Right. Something else then. Squirrels… rabbits… coyotes? Couldn't eat one of those, it'd be like eating a dog. Pigs? Were supposed to be some, weren't there? Christ, he sucked at this. There were fish that had looked fairly catchable, but he doubted their blood was… blood. Look for pigs, then. Should have urged her into a fight with those hunters, got himself both a real meal and a gun to secure the deer with. 

  
  


**** +  
  


Spike came back long after dark, and crawled into bed without a word. He smelt like mud and something sweet, as if he'd been rolling in a damp meadow. He probably looked amusing. Why the hell hadn't she thought to loot a torch? She had, according to her mother, been responsible for the looting of eight cartons of cigarettes and a pair of sunglasses. Where was he even going to  _ wear _ sunglasses?   


She fidgeted around seeking a non-existent comfortable spot in her bed, and finally broke the noisy dark silence to ask, "Did you… find something to eat?"

He made a noise that was half sigh, half groan. "Some bird-thing," he said. "Feathery. Still hungry."   


She bit her lip. "I didn't mean it, about not eating the deer. I mean, you have to eat something, and I'm obviously off the table."   


He made a short, quiet laughing sound. "I know. Couldn't catch any. They're a bit smarter than they look."   


"Maybe we could try together tomorrow?" she heard herself say timorously. It was kind of like slaying, wasn't it? Not that she needed a substitute. It was just good to stay sharp. Besides, the last thing she needed was him getting any weirder from lack of food. Four times today he'd drifted off with a strange look on his face, then instantly become shifty (and shitty) when she called his attention back. She'd never been gladder for the existence of the chip, otherwise she'd be sleeping with one eye open and all the stabby little sticks that made up her bed pointing firmly at him. Hungry vampires were not safe company, however tame they might seem. He could… well, he was inventive, she didn't need to start drawing brain pictures of all the possible ways he could corpse her up ready for his dinner. But he had the chip for any insane spur-of-the-moment decision to jump on her with his fangs, and his survival instinct to stop him setting her up any other time. He needed her, whether he wanted to admit it or not. At least he wasn't in love with her.

"If you're keen?" he said, quietly hopeful.   


She shrugged, then realised he probably - hopefully - couldn't see. "I'm not making any promises of success," she said lightly. "If you couldn't creep up on any then I doubt I can."

There was a rustle of movement, and she almost pointed out how not-sneaky it was.

"Was that a compliment, slayer?" he asked, his voice coming from a different angle, as if he'd sat up.

"If you call lurking about all creepily a compliment-worthy practice," she said, smiling. Freaky pain in her arse or no, she felt better for his presence back here. The last few hours had been all with the disheartenment, her aching feet and grubby self and knotty hair and almost overwhelming loneliness all combining to flatten her onto her sad excuse for a bed in despair. She'd wanted her mom to come and sit on the edge and tell her she'd be feeling better soon. Spike would hardly do that, or solve any of her other issues, but he was nothing if not distracting. And he had given her another t-shirt, warmer and more camouflagey (black) than the thin one she'd fled in.

"Reckon I do," he said, a smug grin audible in his tone. God, she'd been spending far too much time with him this summer if she could  _ hear _ that look.   


He started humming under his breath, drumming his fingers on the floor softly. She grinned and snuggled down into his coat further.  _ Distraction, thy name is Spike. _

He got bored of that before her more miserable thoughts re-coalesced, and the hum faded out with a final long, descending note. A moment later he rustled around again, then a tiny scratching sound started, stopped, started again.   


She tried and failed to fit an image to the sound. "What are you doing?" she asked, smiling again, almost feeling like it was a game now.   


"Why?" he asked quietly, hints of both apology and defiance in it. Then he leered a little to say, "What do  _ you _ think I'm doing?"   


"I think… you've brought a mouse home, and it's nibbling out through your boot."

He snickered. "Spot on. I'm keeping it in there until you fall asleep, then I'm going to drop it into your bed."

"Is it a he-mouse or a she-mouse?"

Pause. "Does it matter?"   


"Yes."

He rustled around loudly, then said, "It's a she- a female mouse."

"Okay. She's welcome then."

"Well that just ruins my fun. She'll have to stay with me now."  _ Scratch scratch scratch.   
_

She wouldn't ask.   


_Scratch._ _Scratch-scratch_.

"What are you really doing?"

He chuckled, then told her, "Writing my name on the wall."

Huh. That was a good idea. "What with?"

"Pocket knife."

She had one of those, pressing uncomfortably into her thigh. She pulled it out and opened it, then felt over the clay-ish rock of the wall beside her bed for the smoothest part.  _ Scritch-scritch-scritch. _

"What are you doing?" he asked.   


"Signing the visitors’ book. 'Worst vacation spot ever. Zero stars.'"

"I dunno, the… yeah, you're right. This sucks."   


"It really does," she laughed. 

  
  


**** x  
  


She kept sneaking looks at him this morning, from the corner of her eye, from behind his back, never pausing long enough when he looked for him to be able to catch her eye. She'd been doing it ever since it got light enough to see, interspersed with the bursts of pacing or nibbling at candy bars or straightening up her bed. It was almost making him twitchy, but with what, he couldn't tell. Fear. Hornyness. Excitement. The need to wrestle her down and do… he no longer knew what. But something had shifted between them, maybe in the hours talking in the dark, maybe with her mood this morning. Whatever it was, it was rousing, in every meaning of the term. So was seeing her in his shirt with her hair all mussed about.

Finally, he sat down outside and lit a cigarette, lowering his eyelids lazily, all casual-like. He felt her eyes settle on his back steadily, and didn't twitch at the thrill that ran down his spine.  _ Playing with fire, mate _ , some instinct warned, but fuck if it wasn’t worth it.

"Shall we go?" she asked when he butted out his smoke. She moved up to peer out through the forest, weight forward on her toes as if waiting to fire herself at a deer should one wander out right in front of them.

He nodded, brushing his palms off on his pants as he rose, and let her lead the way.   


They headed east this time, towards the distant mountain ranges that ran north to south, away from the roads. Buffy moved with a seriousness he'd not expected; this was no idle offer to play at catching something before he could. This was her seeking a kill. Lusting for it. Perhaps that was what she'd been eyeing him up for; instincts clamouring at her that they'd been suppressed too long in the presence of her natural prey. The fantasy of fighting her again, all-out, full strength, shimmered through his brain so strongly that he was surprised the chip wasn't sending out warning jolts. They'd better find something to kill soon.

The first deer - a pair of them - bolted while she was still choosing an approach. She turned back with a frown to where he'd frozen, hanging back to let her try on her own.   


"About how it went for me every time," he told her ruefully.   


Looking away again to where the deer had vanished, she said, "Okay. But there's two of us now. We need to split, one of us hide, one chase them from the other side. Like wolves."

He nodded, impressed. "You chase. You don't have to dodge the sun." The deer always ran into the shade, probably for obstacles and obscuration.   


They found the next one browsing along beside a massive fallen tree, the trunk too wide surely for it to jump easily. She pointed at the ground for him to wait, then vanished.   


Five minutes later he hadn't seen any sign of her, and the deer was still picking its way along slowly. Nibble, look up, chew, look around, sniff, flick ears, nibble again. Were they this observant all day? They must sleep at some point. He'd probably have better luck at night after all; he'd just been too over it last night to keep trying. Ten minutes. Where was she?

Then the deer raised its head sharply, facing directly away from him. Its body stiffened, then it whirled about and leapt into flight in one smooth motion. Holding his position became near impossible; fangs itching, eyes locked on the onrushing form of it, hoofbeats pounding in his ears.  _ Wait. Closer. Wait. _ It was going to go wide of him, away from the tree; he needed to make his dash for it while it was still well ahead.  _ Wait… now. _

The deer baulked at his sudden appearance, hooves skittering, stamping, kicking up leaves as it dove out to the right and put on a further burst of speed. Its nostrils were flared wide, eyes wider, panicked now and running on pure adrenaline. He was gaining on it, maybe, closer than he'd got so far anyway, but not near close enough to secure it. Then Buffy raced up on its outside, parallel, spooking it again, and it kicked up the ground again as it zagged away from her.   


Instinct took over, hunger and bloodlust and the sound of its pounding heart, and he took two flying steps and then dove at it, fangs bursting free joyously, all of him bursting free like he'd torn from the chains holding him. An antler was in his hand and the weight and momentum of his flying tackle was tumbling the prey towards the ground, its legs kicking out, sharp hooves slicing the air. He wrenched back on the antler to bare its neck, and struck. Blood gushed like a river, hot, almost scorching, fast and full and rich and pumping out so fast he couldn't swallow it quickly enough, and he gulped it down with a growl in his chest and eyes closed in bliss.

He felt the convulsive kicking of its legs halt as Buffy grabbed hold of them, probably worried it would still run, or maybe needing her own sense of completion to the hunting - surprised she hadn't staked it - but it wasn't going anywhere. He'd felt its neck give with a crunch when he twisted it back, and the throbbing pulse of its artery was already fluttering to a stop.   


Swallowing a final time, he slid his fangs free of the reddened furry skin and heaved in a breath. He felt lightheaded, like he was stepping back into himself after a moment of complete loss of control, of willing abandonment of control, all dazed and tingling. _Shake off the gameface, you must look a sight. _If she'd been forgetting what he was, it was impossible to avoid seeing it now. Unable to feel any shame in it, the opposite, a primal sense of pride in it, in the rawness and ferocity of it. God, it had been so long. _Stop growling! _It was rumbling in his chest still, a warning to anything coming to challenge him for his meal, not her though, she could sink her fangs into its flank down there, except she didn't have any. And was probably looking at him in horrified disgust (but what did she expect would happen when she helped him catch it?). Fangs finally relented and slid away, and he took another breath before looking over at her cautiously, defiantly, challengingly.   


Crouching on the rear legs of the deer, she was staring at him alright. But not in horror, or disgust. Her pupils were huge, eclipsing most of the green of her eyes, and they bore into him with fascination and  _ need. _ Her lips were parted, chest moving with shallow little pants, and his cock twitched at the sensuality of it. He knew now why she'd been watching him. Buffy was  _ hungry. _   


He couldn't tear his eyes away, and wondered vaguely if she'd thralled him in place with the raw lust in her gaze. No, he just didn't _want _to look away. He wanted to answer it. _Yes,_ _god yes._ _Take what you need, slayer, take everything. Only keep looking at me like that.   
_

He needed to run. She would pounce if he did, he was certain; she wasn't a wolf at all, but a mountain lion in the skin of one, prowling within range of a leap before you saw the danger of her. Back away, then, slow and steady, christ, don't trigger her, you can’t fight her, hope she's still in control enough to let you go.   


He hadn't moved, and now she did, prowling across the still-hot body of the deer, eyes growing even darker. He should move. He didn't want to. What was the point; she'd catch him before he took a single step. He wanted her, and damn the flashbulbs screaming  _ Danger! _ in all of his senses that were only making him harder. He wanted to match his teeth to hers and tear into each other in bloodlust and carnal lust and unleashed desire.   


He broke when she was a foot away, diving for her instead of from her, hands grabbing her to him and lips crashing against hers, intent on swallowing the taste of her, the breath of her, the scent of her. She met him just as fiercely, pressing herself against him, clawing him to her possessively, her hot little tongue sweeping inside his mouth before she caught his bottom lip in her teeth and bit down hard enough to draw blood. Then she was kissing him again, chasing the taste of his blood, on top of him on the forest floor somehow with her fingers digging into his chest. He didn't have a shit show in hell.

This shouldn't be how it ends. Or maybe it should. Maybe it was karmic justice for the slayer's lives he'd taken. At least it was her. Christ, the taste her, the feel of her, the overwhelming neediness of her. He let his head sink back into the pointed leaves and groaned with pleasure and desire and anguish, one hand sweeping down her back to press her harder against his aching cock where she straddled him. His other arm fell to the ground, heavy, and he left it there, certain she'd clamp her fingers around his wrist momentarily to hold him secure.  _ Kiss the world goodbye.   
_

She froze with the slackening of the muscles in his arm, then pushed against his chest as she tore her mouth from his and sat up. One of her hands flew to her mouth, hovering before it as she drew in a ragged breath. Her face was bloodied, red smeared around her mouth, some of it his, the rest belonging to the forgotten deer. Then she leapt off him like she'd been scorched, to her feet and fleeing as quickly as the deer had, vanishing from sight and sound before he could do more than lift his head.   


He stared at where she'd disappeared, then let his head flop back down and blinked up at the trees obscuring the sky. The lack of a beating heart became a tangible hollow in his bodily awareness, the sense that something should be pounding, thumping, setting a rhythm to the cacophony in his mind. He'd felt hers. Pounding from her chest into his.   


Better move. Before she changes her mind. He climbed to his feet and began walking in the opposite direction, stumbling, still dazed. Licking tentatively at the blood on his lip and the taste of her saliva with it. Remembering her hands,  _ wanting,  _ her dark eyes, craving, ravenous for him. Unable to see the ground in front of him for the memory of her pelvis grinding down on him. At the next tree he stopped, leaned against the trunk with one hand, needing the support. Blinked his eyes and saw hers, the flush of desire on her cheeks, the moist heat of her lips. His free hand went to his belt, tearing at the buckle impatiently, aching for contact. He almost hissed when he finally wrapped his hand around his cock, uncomfortably hard, treading that exquisite line between pain and pleasure that was a taste of both, like she'd been,  _ oh fuck. _ He stroked himself hard, fast, hand moving without needing to be told to, leaning against the arm braced on the tree to take the weight off his shaky legs, eyes closed to see her better, her plundering his lips, mouth,  _ god, Buffy _ . He threw his head back and came hard, that suppressed hiss turning into a roar, a snarl, a groan of surrendering the tightrope to swan dive into ecstasy until the ground.   


It was easier to think after that. He forced his still-hard cock back into his jeans, and considered his situation. 

  
  


**** +  
  


She didn't stop until she was inside the cave, panting hard, sweat trickling down her spine.  _ I just tried to eat someone.  _ If only it was that simple.  _ I just tried to devour Spike.  _ It was more than hunger. Did everyone feel it like this? It was just the effect of the mojo, right? No one else had been grinding themselves wantonly against vampires, sure, but no one else had taken this long to go after them either. It must be her humanity finally catching up. Of course it would take longer, her slayer strength was, well, slayer strength, probably fought off the virus or whatever until now, and made her smell more supernaturally while it did so. She was probably safe around people again now.   


Besides, he'd started the whole kissing thing. It had excited him in some sick vampire way, her craziness, and she'd got confused by the kissage and the trying to restrain her hunger and her hormones had gone all wonky and she hadn't - didn't - really want to scr- kiss  _ Spike _ . No way. His lip had felt so full between her teeth, both soft and firm at once, and she hadn't wanted to hurt him but the blood had flowed so easily, satisfying, taking the edge off her hunger and shifting her need lower than her stomach.   


He'd smelt like white chocolate with the faintest hint of cinnamon, like freshly pressed espresso with golden crystals of sugar, like rich frothy milk and oak-barrel whiskey. She'd meant to tell him, after they caught something, to fess up and let him get the hell away from her before she lost it. She hadn't wanted to send him away starving; he didn't deserve to have to run from her at all right now. But then he'd tackled the deer.

There was a speed and viciousness to his strike that made it feel like he'd only been playing whenever they'd fought; a single-minded intensity that could only end in one result. It was brutal, and violent, the bruising impact of flesh on flesh, the crunch of bones breaking, the blood gushing out around his mouth on its neck, the feral ridges of his demon's face and the muscles rippling in his arms. It had thrilled something deep,  _ deep _ inside her even as it revolted her, and without meaning to she'd got closer, and filled with the scent of him through the deer and the mud and the leaves, and then she'd burned to taste him.

Then she was on top of him, and wet for him, and wet-mouthed from him, urgent with need, and he'd relaxed, let his arm fall in surrender, given in to her need and offered her himself. And the spell had shattered with the sudden awareness of her total power over him, and she'd fled. Thank god.   


What on earth was she going to do now?   
  



	7. Leaving you for dead like a deadly shark

**** +  
  


First things first. Establish-  _ confirm  _ that she was all nicely human and not for eating and only as disturbed in her tastes as every other Californian. It was still early - mid-morning - she could head down to the road, walk alongside it, look for some other lonely hiker to approach. Ask for help, say she'd been lost in the woods. It wasn't even a lie. Maybe just happen to go past the spot where they'd left the DeSoto, see if he'd left for Canada yet- no, better not. Go around, then. Confirm her status, then move on to calling the others with her news, and find out how they'd got on with picking over the remains of the Initiative compound. Maybe it was all solved already, and she could take a magic pill and return to normal and… well, she'd never find him to apologise, and that was for the best because she'd never be able to look him in the eye again, but he'd understand and not hold the event against her. These things happened in the supernatural world. He wouldn’t hold himself against her. Her hands clenched on her knees, remembering the firmness of his chest under them, the smooth cool skin under her fingertips. She should have licked it, at that spot where the collar of his t-shirt had been torn, lapped at the silky vanilla cream of him, nibbled at his collarbone to make a little crack and find the rich bourbon inside the shell, like those liqueur-filled chocolates… oh god.   


She needed to call home. Find out there was progress.

His coat was still on her bed, and after a moment's deliberation she put it on to carry with her. He might try to sneak in for it while she was gone, and if she failed to find anyone out there to get help from then she'd freeze tonight without it. Besides, it smelt divine, all warm spice and earthiness. She pulled the collar up to bury her nose in it as she walked.   


There'd been a lookout marked prominently on the map, the sort of place people would aim for on a day trip, a non-hunting trip, but she couldn’t remember how far it was. South. Further than the ranger station. Which should be closer by road than by the circuitous route they'd taken before. The road was easier to walk on, too, and she'd hear any vehicles coming long before they could see her.   


Walk fast. Jog. Keep yourself busy. Don't think.   


It was way too hot to be jogging on tarmac in a black leather coat. She took it off, slung it over her shoulder and slowed to a walk. The tarmac was still too hot. Too black, too bare, too I’ve-seen-this-sniper-scene. She ducked back into the forest and picked up the pace again.

At the driveway that led up to the ranger station she had to decide afresh what the plan was. There could be someone there. But there could be  _ someones _ . Could be the hunters from yesterday, out here for several days after deer or demons or whichever they found first. Was that how the world worked this week?   


They had caught a deer. Spike had slammed into it, crunched into it, sunk his fangs into it, and why had that been what tipped the scales? She’d known he was a… a scented vampire, all morning, forefront of her mind. It must have been the adrenaline, the running, making her blood pump faster. Only natural. Only the way of things with whatever weird-ass infection this was.   


It wasn’t like she’d been groiny with him on the hood of a police car. Or been stuck in bed with him in a haunted sex-sin house. Or taken off her flasher coat and presented herself naked before him. Or any of the other scenarios pertaining to the hellmouth. She’d just… nibbled him. And he’d been lewd about it, because that’s how Spike was, always laying it on with the lasciviousness, and really, she hadn’t given him many options, and, god, she’d practically assaulted him- no, strike that, she  _ had _ assaulted him, except that  _ he’d _ kissed  _ her _ first, she'd only wanted to taste him- but he must have seen a sexual come-on as his last chance to turn her off the idea of eating him and scare her away.   


Not only was she a demon-eating superfreak, she was some kind of vampire sexual predator, too.

She stopped walking, nauseating shame swirling in her gut.  _ God, Spike, I'm so sorry.  _ He'd been kind to her through all this, in his own way, leaving the usual cutting remarks behind with Sunnydale and treating her like… well, an equal. Which should be weird, but somehow wasn't. He'd always levelled with her, underneath the surface banter of, you know, trying to kill each other. He had  _ respect  _ for her, for her skills and her title obviously, but for her  _ self _ , too, in a different way from anyone else she'd ever known. And she grudgingly had to admit she had the same for him, for his sheer irrepressibility, for his bursts of sharp common sense, for the way he'd adapted to what really was a crippling weakness.   


He'd be fine though. Drive north like he'd wanted to, find some grotty demon bar with some floozy she-vampire to grouse to about the horrors of the hellmouth life. So would she. Find help. Ring mom. Go home. 

  
  


The couple had rucksacks topped with sleeping bags; hiking boots and matching wide-brimmed hats. Middle-aged, with an air of organisation and granola. Their hands were empty, and they were talking casually as they walked. She watched them moving down the trail for a time, then sprinted ahead and turned down towards the path to sit and wait for them.   


Their faces became concerned as they spotted her - she hated to imagine how she looked now - and she took the initiative, standing up and waving with what she hoped was a relieved smile.

"Hello!" she called.  _ Fellow humans.  _ Why didn't they feel like it? "I've been lost, I really need some help, please." Urgh, that sounded so lame. Like she was the bait for a trap. But normal people didn't think like that, did they?

"Are you alright?" the woman of the pair asked as they hurried closer. Buffy shifted one foot back, feeling twitchy like the deer. "It's okay," the woman said quickly. "Don't worry, love, we can help you." She had a kind face, gentle-looking, and her supposed-husband matched her.   


He pulled a water bottle from the side pocket of his backpack and held it out as he stepped forward. "Better start with a drink."

"Thank you." She reached for the bottle, relief washing through her. She was okay. She was on the right side of this mess again.

Before her fingers could touch it, their smiles changed, concern melting away into eager pleasure. Inhaling through their noses, eyes widening; the bottle fell to the ground as she withdrew her hand and the man let it fall.   


Buffy shook her head in denial and took several steps back. "No, see, I need-"   


They were advancing, eyes fixed on her in that disturbingly single-minded way. It was no use. She ran, almost dashing off into the forest, but no, they might get lost chasing her, and a glance back showed that they were still empty-handed. She sprinted down the trail instead, praying she wouldn't run into anyone else. Several bends and loops in it put her out of sight, then she split off at a ninety-degree angle through the forest for a short stretch before doubling back towards the road.  _ Get in your car, go home. You'll get hurt out here.   
_

Close to the road she stopped and listened, catching her breath; no sign of them.  _ Keep moving. Find water. _ She saw the water bottle again, dropping to the path as the man opened his hand and let it fall. Giles's book, the dent to the spine. He would be upset about that.

Downhill; downhill was where all the streams were found. Off to the east, watching the contours ahead. Down to the water and slogging upstream through it for a mile. She forgot to roll up her pants, and it would have been too deep, anyway, chilly water past her knees. Why was she wading so deep? Wondered, but didn’t move to the shallows.   


How far had she come? The forest had changed, looking more like that immediately around their cave. She'd stuck to moving north, hadn't she? Must have gone wide of the station. Stop moving. Don't get lost out here yourself.   


She made herself sit down, stretch out her legs, pull things back into order in her mind. Step two of the plan; call mom. A decisive nod to herself, then back west for the road and - hopefully - recognisable landmarks.   


By mid-afternoon she was watching the ranger station from the trees again, twice as far back as where she'd hidden with Spike to do the same. There were people in there, talking, voices raised. Three of them, male. Arguing, not violently, more stressed than angry.   


The door opened and one of them stomped out, lighting a cigarette and leaning on the railing of the little porch. Too far away for her to recognise features - and she hadn't looked long enough yesterday to be certain she could identify them in any case - but he looked like one of the hunting party they'd run from. The other two kept the debate going through the now-open door, and she picked up enough to work it out. Their fourth member was missing. Smoking-guy wanted to go and look for him. The others thought he'd make his way back on his own. Smoking-guy accused them of being too lazy with their full bellies, and finally threw down his cigarette and stomped off into the forest, swinging his gun down from his shoulder and checking it. The others came to the door and watched him go, then, grumbling and groaning, picked up their own weapons and followed him.   


She watched until they were out of sight and sound, then eyed the building again. If she was doing this, it had better be now.

Dash across the open, keeping low, feet slapping down quietly. Listening at the windowless east side of the building; silence. A scent, a tingle on her neck, turning to cold snakes churning in her belly- not him. She knew his signature, somehow, a deeper, richer vibration. This was pinpricky, weak. Fledge. She slipped around the side of the wall and edged up to the door.   


The vampire lay against the far wall, tied by the wrists and neck to one leg of the bookshelf. A half-full bookshelf wouldn't hold a vamp. But this one wasn't going anywhere. Her legs were stripped to the bone in places, muscle and skin carved cleanly away. The surface of the wounds looked too dry, too pale, for something alive; sickeningly like the ends of the legs of lamb at the supermarket's butchery counter.   


The snakes made a dash for freedom up her throat, and she forced them back down, swallowing the bitter lump of them painfully. Her hand was reaching for the back of the waist of her pants before she thought about, and as her fingers closed on the stake there she felt a distant flicker of surprise; it seemed like an age since she'd picked it up out of habit while getting dressed in her bedroom.   


She moved into the room, both repulsed and unable to look away. The girl's face was young; she was probably high school age when she was turned, which must have been recently. Her pixie-cut dark hair had a streak of hot pink in it, like a single vibrant feather. The tight purple t-shirt she wore bore bloodstained holes in several places; they must have shot her.   


The scent swept over her as soon as she entered the room, sweet and alluring and mingling disgustingly with the bile in her throat.  _ Oh god.  _ She froze in place.   


The girl's eyes flickered open, sensing something, and she looked up at Buffy blearily, fearful but resigned. Then her eyes landed on the stake, and narrowed slightly before travelling up to her face. "Slayer?" she rasped out.

Buffy’s tongue felt thick and sluggish, her saliva too viscid. She nodded uncertainly.  _ Am I?   
_

The girl nodded back, closing her eyes. She didn't try to move; perhaps she couldn’t.   


Buffy's tongue slithered free to wet the inner edge of her lips as fresh saliva filled her mouth. Before she could think, she strode the short distance across the room and plunged her stake down at the girl's chest, in, out, crunch of breastbone and a full-bodied jerk of the girl's body. The familiar muted explosion sound of dusting vamp, then dust falling down through the still-scented air.   


Buffy looked down at the stake in her hand, then bolted from the place, slowing only to grab Spike’s coat from where she'd stashed it.

  
  


There were other places, other phones. She would go to one. There was the road map back at the cave, tourist attractions and forest service amenities marked on it. She should eat something before heading out again, fill the snakepit, make sure she had plenty of energy. Practical steps. Self-care. The cookies and muesli bars were exhausted, but there was still chocolate and a bag of chips. Neither were appealing; she hoped that had more to do with the complete lack of real nutrition in them than her craving for something more demony. She shouldn't have let Spike eat all the jerky.   


Once she sat down on her bed, it was hard to feel any motivation to get up again. The cave felt too still without Spike and his constant movement, his unnecessary breath, his fidgeting and picking at things, but outside would be no more comforting.   


She wasn't on the human side of this divide. There would be no help out there. She wasn't on the demon side; the help she'd had here was gone. She was the one girl in all the world who fitted nowhere, standing alone in the cavern of the middle. She wanted to cry.

The light was changing; was there even time to trek to an unknown phone? Fumbling her way back here in the dark on her own didn't exactly strike her fancy.   


The light was fading, and her feet ached dully. She sat there until the light was gone, then she lay down and stared at the dark.

  
  


Things looked better at sunrise. Or so she told herself. New day. Fresh start. God, she'd kill for a coffee. If there was no good news from Sunnydale then she was going to have to seriously think about finding food somewhere. Without literally killing for it. And a shower.   


She could grizzle now, give vent to all of the first-world material-girl complaints she'd stifled through sheer stubbornness while knowing Spike was waiting eagerly to mock her for them. The tangles in her hair were getting harder and harder to finger-comb free, all of it in desperate need of half a bottle of shampoo and deep conditioner. At least it smelt nice. Piney. Two of her nails were broken to the point where they'd bled, leaving the ends of those fingers over-sensitive and tender. And they looked awful.   


She tried to complain aloud, launching into a diatribe on the state of her skin and the rips in her shirt, but it felt dangerous, and disappointing, and her voice faded away during the first sentence.  _ Sigh. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Harden up. _   


She sneered back at inner-hardass-Buffy and started walking. 

  
  


A helicopter flew over slowly, and she pressed close to the trunk of a huge tree. The machine was invisible from down on the shadowed forest floor, all noise and a vibration that ran down the trunk. Search and rescue for the missing hunter? Some kind of army support arriving to stop people running through the forest getting themselves killed? It seemed to hover in place off to the east of her, then a booming shot rang out. Hunters. She'd seen people hunting bears that way on TV. The helicopter held its position for another minute, then retreated swiftly to the west. They must be planning to land somewhere and head in to pick up their kill.

Should she try and beat them to it? It couldn't be Spike, he was long gone, and wouldn't be out under the open blue sky anyway. Unless they could shoot off into the trees? No, he wasn't stupid. She wished she'd paid more attention to that TV show. Her feet were already taking her that way. She ought to check out what was going on; better warned, better armed, and all that. She wasn't hungry.   


With only the memory of an auditory direction to go on, it was sheer luck that she found the demon. It lay at the edge of the treeline, as if it had been bolting for cover before it was gunned down. Its skin was dark red, probably a useful warning sign in its natural habitat; only a glaring target out here, against the green grass and brown leaves. She watched it from the distance briefly, then jogged away, licking her lips and listening behind her.

  
  


"I can’t talk long," she said quickly, as soon as her mother answered. "I'm, um, it's affecting me too. I'm on my own now. Safety first, you know me, so I don't know when I'll be able to call again."

"Of course, honey." She was trying to put a brave face on, voice too cheery and false. "Don't worry about us. Just keep yourself _ safe. _ Here's Mr Giles."

They thought it might be improving, for themselves. Willow and Tara had perfected their diagnostic spell, and said the signature of The Hunger was weakening in the six inhabitants of Revello, if not for the rest of the population equally. Outside, some version of normality was being forcefully restored, largely by an army force. The media were calling it a mutation of the rabies virus, infecting people and wild animals, causing strange behaviour and hallucinations. The roadblocks were now official and across the state, emergency civil defence rules were in place, the town was under a curfew. The Initiative bunker had provided some hints, he would explain when there was time. There were no demons left in Sunnydale, so far as they could tell. The mountains were off the radar, for now, but she should head north, further into them, if she could.  _ Stay safe. People have… things are turning.  _ With the mention of rabies, people were looking trigger-happy towards anyone behaving suspiciously.   


She was listening too closely to the phone; she'd been in this blind box too long. "I should go," she said, both anxious and reluctant.   


"Do!" Giles said urgently, obviously hearing both. Then he ended the call.

It wasn't until she was sprinting back into the forest, heart pounding for no reason but imagination, that she realised her mother hadn't asked about Spike. 

  
  


The smoke stream stood out from miles away, drifting straight up in the still evening air. A beacon, alluring with its promise of homey warmth and maybe marshmallows and toasting bread. It would be worth fumbling back in the dark if she could find something useful by it. Or maybe someone had left it behind, and she could sit by it for a time.   


Across the road carefully in the gathering dusk, through the trees and out of sight of the smoke for a long time as the temperature dropped and true darkness arrived. Finally scenting it on the breeze faintly, the softest breath of air drifting towards her. Eventually something became visible ahead; a small blue tent, lit from within, the campfire beside it on the edge of a clearing.   


Moving cautiously now, reminding herself to stay focused, wary. Be a wild beast of the forest, not a lonely, hungry,  _ weary _ person. They were in the tent, the fire-possessors. Two people, laughing and talking. Rich, warm voices. She watched, downwind and what she thought should be out of range if it shifted. There was nothing outside the tent bar the fire; in the shadows thrown on the walls of it she could make out what might be backpacks, sleeping bags.   


The lights moved, then the people were emerging - two men, dressed to be out here, boots and padded jackets. She'd never imagined putting her feet into a pair of hiking boots before this week, but, oh, man, did she lust after them now. As soon as she got home she was going shopping for a pair. At least she had a jacket, windproof and waterproof and surprisingly soft. And still fragrant.   


Their torch beams swept the campsite and trees idly, then they were walking off, further into the open, easy to follow with their lights on the ground in front of them. In the middle of the clearing they stopped and sat down, the torches flicked off, a lighter flared and a cigarette- joint, probably (hopefully), was passed over.   


If she was going to do this, now was her chance. She slunk up to the now-dark tent and felt out the zipper on the back, then eased it open slowly and quietly. Pause, listen; silence from inside. Check around the edge; a tiny red ember in the clearing still. If they were talking she was too far away to hear. Duck into the tent, feel around. She'd been right; two large backpacks, on top of an unrolled sleeping bag. One had a sleeping bag tied to its top, so she seized that one and forced herself to move slowly as she lifted it towards the door. Heart thumping loudly again, less with anxiety now than with a sinful little thrill at her rule-breaking, however justifiable by circumstance. Out of the tent, back into the forest cover, backpack held to her chest. Get clear, half a mile, more. Then she slowed to shift the bag to her back as she walked, adjusting the straps until it sat comfortably. It even had one of those waist-strap things. Fancy.

It took what felt like half the night to get back to the cave, with various detours to muddle her trail (and maybe getting a tiny bit lost once or twice), but it was worth it. She freed the sleeping bag and unrolled it on her bed, then wriggled inside and grinned to herself.  _ This  _ was better. It felt like her bones were sinking down into plush clouds, relaxing properly at last on the softest surface she'd encountered in days. And there might be more wondrous luxuries yet to be unpacked. She wouldn't speculate. She'd wait for daylight, then open it like a Santa sack on Christmas morning. 

  
  


She slept heavily until long past dawn, and only worried when she woke up that she should have made an effort to stay more alert. Oh well, no point worrying about it now. She eyed the backpack, then crawled outside and ducked into the bushes to pee before carrying on to the stream for a drink, delaying the (hopeful) gratification further. At least she didn't have to worry about hiding from Spike every time she needed a wee anymore.   


She took each item out in turn, inspecting it from every angle before setting it down on her sleeping bag and reaching for the next one. Looking over it all once she'd reached the end, she felt rich. Then ridiculous. Then decided no, she  _ was _ rich. Compared to yesterday. A water bottle. Several days worth of vacuum-packed meals. A couple of changes of men's clothing that were far too big for her, but she could make something work from them. A paperback sci-fi novel. A lighter. A knife/fork/spoon set.   


She tore the top off a packet of vacuum-packed stew and ate it with the fork, and everything seemed hopeful again.

Giles had said to move north. Spike had wanted to move north. She had equipment now; it would be stupid to stay this close to the road for the sake of a cave. Besides, there were bound to be others. After licking her fork clean, she picked out a change of pants, removing one of the extra straps from the backpack to use as a belt and folding up the cuffs. Then she repacked everything carefully, adding her towel and what was left in her basket, and looked around at the cave one final time. There was a chip bag of rubbish on her side. And the pants she'd been wearing for six days and never wanted to see again. Her name on the wall. Across the cave, a rug, probably a carton of smokes (hidden inside it in case she decided to take up the habit),  _ Spike was here _ on the wall. And in the scent of the rug. She turned her head to sniff the lapel of her coat again, then shouldered the backpack and crawled outside. 


	8. And I'm lost at sea

+  
  


Her options were widened in some ways; there was a lot of slightly less shady country to the east that was full of rocky cliffs and hills. It looked good for finding hidey-holes in, and she could walk in the sun. It also looked good for getting gunned down by helicopter in. She stuck to the shadows, to the thickest cover; to the places she couldn’t see far ahead, but wouldn’t have to move far to dodge anyone else's sight either. She walked fast, ears open, and when a helicopter sounded in the distance at mid-day, wriggled into the space beneath the trunk of a fallen tree to wait until it had gone, images of infrared cameras jumping into her brain. Paranoid? Probably. But better paranoid than dead. A shot rang out from it in the distance, and she cringed in sympathy.

By the time the sun was dipping towards the horizon, her legs were starting to drag at her to sit down, lie down, flop down on the forest floor and not move for a while. But she'd made good distance, and it was a good-tired feeling, calming with its simplicity, like the walking had been. She’d been watching out for possible places to spend the night for a while, without luck. Finally, she found a slight overhang in the side of a slope where a tree had come out by the roots, and decided it would have to do. Thank god it hadn’t rained. She ate more fancy-schmancy packet food, got out her sleeping bag, and curled up in the furthest back corner of the hollow to rest.

She was walking again before true dawn, nibbling on breakfast as she went. Across a bigger road, wide detours around a couple of buildings. Feeling she should get some distance under her before risking another phone call. The helicopter - or maybe a different one - appeared twice that day, and the time spent waiting and hiding became more difficult. It was too easy to think about things when you were hiding under logs or between rocks. Like why you were hiding under logs or between rocks. Or what everyone else was doing. Whether Faith was okay. Whether Spike had found somewhere more comfortable than the back seat of his car. When she opened her backpack that night, she moved the book to the front pocket of it, where she could easily get it out to read next time she had to wait.

The next day she caught a hint of something on the wind, a heavy, putrescent smell. The scent of dead things, days-dead things (and not the decades-dead and walking around smelling like dessert type). She followed her nose, then the sound of cawing birds, steeling her stomach, hoping for the body of some unfortunate deer, bear, skunk. She found the source soon enough; three people spread across ten yards of churned-up earth, bodies mangled and torn where something had ripped into them. Before or after death, she wasn't going close enough to find out. Probably both, judging from the ravens picking at them idly and the damage to the ground. Plus, trios of people didn’t just die in the woods for no reason. She backtracked to move on swiftly. A tinge of a sweeter, alluring smell hastened her feet before she could run into whatever had been responsible and was obviously still in the area.

Once the scents had faded from the air (if not from her nose) she took out the map and wondered about detouring to try and leave a message somewhere, on the nearest road or hiking trail. She wasn't sure exactly where she was on the map anymore. There was a thick ribbon of smoke in the sky to the west; two hours ago, the echo of several gunshots had travelled from the east. This new territory felt more dangerous, but she had no doubt it would be the same behind her around the cave now. She canned the idea of leaving a message. The people were dead. They probably weren't the only ones out here. She'd remember what she could of the location, and pass it on to Giles when she spoke to him. Then clarify to the gang that she had not, in fact,  _ eaten  _ Spike.

Half an hour later, she came across another body. That evening, the stripped carcass of a demon.

She was beginning to feel like the only living person left in the world, the helicopter some robotic bird that hunted just for her, Sunnydale a far-away dream she'd had while curled into the hollow trunk of a tree or beneath a rocky ledge. She was alone. She'd always been alone, and one day she'd die alone. She told herself to get a grip, and to try and touch base with the others.

Day four, the helicopter-bird had a friend. Why shouldn't it. Everyone else did. It wasn't the chosen one.   


She came to another road at mid-morning, and found a steady trickle of cars on it, the road only empty for brief moments between each. A four-wheel drive pulled over onto the verge as she watched, and a group of six people wearing camo gear climbed out. They had walkie-talkies, serious-looking guns, some kind of handheld device they all clustered around for a time. They didn't look military. Sunglasses, gloves; somehow they didn't quite seem human either.   


She hurried away from them, parallel with the road, until the cover began to thin and she had to choose whether to cross or go backwards. It was a long way from the trees on this side to the ones on the other. Further until they were thick enough for her to be safely hidden in. But heading south would feel like being driven. Why were there  _ so many cars? _ Had there always been this many? Perceptions seemed to slide; she felt both sharper and more distracted. She moved from tree to tree between passing vehicles, waited for a stretch of clear road, then bolted swiftly across before she could change her mind. The sound of a car still out of sight around the bend roared up in her ears as she dove behind a tree on the north side, but it passed by and continued on its way smoothly.   


Somewhere in the past few days, trying to logic her way through the situation and take comfort in its temporariness had been abandoned. There was only the next stretch of trees, the next place to duck and hide, the next sound to identify the direction of. Was she through Sierra yet? Into Yosemite? Still in Sequoia forest and covering less ground than she thought? Who knew.

When she finally spotted a small hut on a hill ahead, she ordered herself to stop before her feet automatically veered away from it. She needed information. She needed to reach out to someone, before she lost more of herself out here.   


She found a spot to watch it from across the valley, and settled in to wait.

  
  


There were people, or things that were shaped like people, staying in the hut. Maybe two or three, but they only came out singly to pee on the bushes beside it, so it was hard to tell from this range. There was no road leading to it, so they must have hiked in from somewhere.   


The day wore on into the afternoon, and she was no closer to getting inside or knowing what they were doing here. Probably just camping. Would people go camping through civil emergencies? Maybe they'd planned it for a while. Maybe it was an annual weekend. Was it the weekend? Had she really been out here that long? Had she only been out here that long?   


She moved closer, down her slope, partway up theirs. Before she was close enough to hear anything, her nose caught a mouthwatering sweetness in the air, something like honey and apple pie. Too heady, too alluring to  _ be  _ honey and apple pie. She froze, inhaling it deeply for a minute before realising that if she could smell their dinner, they could probably smell her.  _ Leave. Now.  _ With a final sniff, she did.

It was close to dark, but she needed to get a safe distance from them before sleeping. She needed to eat something to forget that scent.  _ Run first. Then hide and eat.  _ Right. She jogged until it was almost dark, then couldn't find anywhere to hide.  _ Stupid, stupid. _ She was too close still. Too hungry. She'd been rationing her food, but was still down to the last couple of meals. She was going to be the first slayer who starved to death because she couldn't find food in the forest, or keep her wits about her, or bring herself to follow any of the attractive scents whose paths she'd crossed and hunt down what she craved. Giles was going to be so disappointed in her.   


A sort of thicket of small bushy trees appeared, bursting up where a gap in the high forest canopy gave them light, and she headed for it. There was a hollow in the side of them, almost a path, or more of a tunnel, and she ducked down to follow it. Two steps inside, the bushes exploded.

She dove to the side and kicked out automatically, and her foot connected with some part of a furry body as an antler smashed against her shoulder. The deer crashed to the ground, limbs kicking wildly, and she pressed back further against the bushes and away from the flying hooves. The creature snorted, a loud, panicked sound, then its feet found the dirt and it scrambled up and away in a crashing of branches.  _ Deer. Only a deer. _   


She felt out her shoulder. It smarted a little from the impact, but wasn't actually hurt. The strap of her backpack had probably blocked the brunt of it. The scent of the deer was obvious now, warm and musky; she should have noticed it sooner.  _ Pay attention.  _ She'd been too busy scenting for other things.   


Her first instinct was to follow the deer and leave, but no, it had obviously thought this place safe to rest in, and it wouldn't be back. She crawled further inside instead, and found a dry hollow in the ground, still warm from its body. She would spend the night here.

  
  


In the morning she surveyed her meagre supplies again, then decided to head back to the hut instead of further on. There was more activity at it this morning. A sense of excitement and preparation. Sure enough, a short time after she'd started watching, the three men came outside, shouldered weapons, and headed off into the forest to the west. She gave them time to get a good distance away, then moved towards the hut.   


It was empty of people, to her great relief. It was also empty of a phone, to her disappointment. But they had food. She threw things into her backpack blindly, then bolted from the place and continued northwards.

  
  


It happened when she least expected it, of course. She'd been moving along the bottom of a rocky cliff, looking for a place where it would be easy to climb up it and maybe see out ahead. The forest had been quiet since she'd left the hut, only birds and squirrels catching her eyes and ears, so when she heard something scuff behind her, she glanced back expecting to see another one.   


Birds and squirrels and sore feet and idle thoughts vanished. There was a man standing twenty yards behind her, wearing a bedraggled business shirt and tie. The shirt was blue, light denimy blue, but most of the front and sleeves of it were stained and crusted to a purplish wine-red. He held a revolver in his right hand, trained on her, but his eyes were narrowed in thought and he was sniffing carefully. Not quite certain enough to have shot her in the back when he probably could have. How had he got so  _ close? _

_ Speak. Bluff.  _ "Please, can you help me?" she called. Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, belonging to another life. A life she had to get back to. The cliff was close on her left, and curving away; if she had a couple of seconds headstart she could put it between him and her and keep it there. Her backpack was full, heavy… it wouldn't block anything well enough to be worth the handicap of carrying it; she didn't need it. She slipped off the straps and swung it to the ground in front of her, as if she was glad to stop and talk to him.  _ Lost human, remember?  _ "I've been lost for days out here," she added, letting her voice wobble.

She saw the decision on his face before he moved, and she was already ducking and spinning to run as the gun barked. The bullet hit the rock nearby, exploding chips of stone from it, and she ignored the instinct to dodge away and swerved closer towards the stone wall instead, running faster than she ever had in her life.  _ Get around it. You're faster than him.  _ She heard a second shot cut through the air near her head, then a third hit the cliff somewhere higher.   


The rocks curved back on themselves, and she sprinted around the corner, expecting with every step to feel the next bullet slam into her back. The shot never came. She made it a few steps out of sight, then something smashed her in the face.   


It bowled her from her feet, momentum and the sheer unexpectedness of it working against her. A whoop of excitement sounded from whoever had attacked her, then there were knees slamming down on her back to keep her to the ground, and before she could twist to throw them off, something cold and metallic shoved against the hollow under her ear.  _ Gun. _ The click of the hammer pulling back was unmistakable six inches from her ear. She froze, the stony ground digging into one cheek, everything blurry and spinning nauseatingly from the hit to her face.

"It's warm!" the person on her back called out. He sounded young, barely a teenager. He shouldn't have been able to hit so  _ hard _ . "Dad! Shoot it?"   


From the corner of her eye she could see the boy's face, flushed, excited, eager. Dirty straw-blond hair, a strip of fabric tied around his forehead like a bandana. Too young for facial hair. His pupils were dilated, and he was leaning closer slowly, mouth open and panting slightly in anticipation. If he brought it to her skin, she would move. One of her arms was trapped underneath her, but the other was free; she could elbow him in the arm, trust he was distracted enough not to shoot before the gun was clear, then twist and punch him in the face. Get hold of the gun, turn it against- his dad. He was out here hunting people with his dad. He should be at school.   


"Not there!" his father called, catching up. "We might lose it." They must have learnt from other catches; some things turned to dust or pools of slime if you killed them correctly.   


Great. Now she had two weapons trained on her. She should have made her move earlier. The spinning, stunned feeling was easing, and she could see a bat lying on the ground a few feet away. She'd been caught by a friggin teenager with a baseball bat.   


"Keep that steady," the man instructed, holding his gun on her face where she could see it. His other hand was freeing a knife from his belt.   


_ God, they're going to eat me. _ Screw her pride. "Please," she begged. "I'm human, you don't want to do this."   


They didn't look like they'd even heard her, and perhaps they hadn't. They were practically drooling on her, and the gun vanished from her face to jab into her waist instead as the man stepped closer and crouched down. "Move your leg," he told his son in an eager mumble.

That was it. She wasn't lying here waiting to be maimed and devoured slowly. She'd go down fighting and full of holes if she had to.  _ Now- _

" _ Wait!" _ someone shouted.   


It couldn't be.   


It was. Spike stepped out of the trees slowly, moving carefully so as not to spook anyone. If she thought her week had been bad, it must have been nothing on his. His eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion or hunger or (most likely) both, and he was limping badly, barely touching his left foot to the ground and flinching when he did. The scent of him washed over her, enticing and magnetic. What the hell was he doing? And doing  _ here? _

"I meant it," he called over to her, stopping ten yards away from them all. "What I said." His eyes bore into hers, intense and determined. Then he lowered himself to his knees, laced his hands behind his head, and said lightly to the others, "Come on, you wankers. You know I smell better."

"Hold her," the man mumbled as he stood up and walked quickly towards Spike, circling to get behind him, inhaling deeply through his nose.   


Spike ignored him as if he didn’t exist, confident and calm. Spike must have a plan. He had to have a plan. She felt the knees on her back shift, the boy's concentration wavering in the face of the new temptation, and tensed her arm, ready to slam her elbow back at him as soon as he turned.

Then the man raised his gun, and shot Spike in the back of the head.

Her thoughts exploded with the flash, the sound, the speed. Everything roared in a vortex. There was no decision. She brought her elbow back into the arm behind her head, grabbed the boy's wrist as soon as it was knocked clear of her neck, and snapped it back on itself to point towards its owner. The gun went off pressed against the boy's neck as he fell forward, shredding the flesh of his throat into a gushing mess. She wrenched the gun away, twisting it desperately until his fingers finally came free, then aimed it wildly at the man and squeezed the trigger. She missed by a mile. He was running towards her, gun raised, but probably unwilling to shoot so close to- she had cover, on her back. She paused for a millisecond, lined the barrel up. Her next shot him squarely in the chest, and a second smashed into his face before he fell. Pause. Hold breath. Listen. Hissing, gurgling sounds on her back. Silence across the ground ahead of her, impossible to see clearly from down here. Silence and a tiny sigh of dying breath from the lumpy thing that was near.

She shoved the wet noisy thing off her back and scrambled to her feet. Spike was on the ground where he'd fallen; something thudded once painfully, like a solid punch to her chest. Spike was on the ground.  _ Thump-thump-thump _ in her ears. There was another gun, attached to the lumpy shape in front of her. She picked it up by the barrel and it came free, then looked at it blankly before throwing it into the trees. There was still one in her other hand. She had used it. It had been loud. People would come. She shoved it in her pocket and ran over to Spike.   


There was blood on his hand. Trickling onto his hair. It smelt so strong, tingling through her nose. He hadn't moved a muscle since that man had raised his gun. He should be getting up. They needed to run from here. His hand would be sore. His leg had been sore. She stretched out and took his hand by the wrist tentatively. It was heavy. Focus on that. Would- Grit teeth. Don't think.   


It didn’t look as bad underneath as she'd feared. Just a small red circle, a tiny trickle of blood amongst the bigger smear from his hand. Okay. She could handle this. Breathe. She crouched closer beside him and put his hand back down gently. She took a deep breath, then another one. They needed to get out of here.   


He was going to be pissed that she'd left his coat when she ran. Better double back for it. She didn't want to leave him here while she did. He looked too vulnerable. He smelt too nice. She realised her finger was to her mouth, her tongue licking his blood from it. She slapped it down to her thigh quickly. Time to go.   


In the end she dragged him onto her back, piggyback style, juggling his weight until she felt somewhat balanced and not about to drop him. Thank christ he wasn't any taller. He never so much as twitched with all the jostling about, but she blocked that off in her brain too. He was heavy, solid. She could carry him. They were leaving.   


She retraced the steps of her brief flight and retrieved her backpack. There were bandages somewhere in it; she could put one on his hand. But that would take time. Later. She wriggled the bag on backwards to carry on her chest, then started walking again.   


Blood dripped off his fingers, so she stopped long enough to lick them clean. And his palm, the hole in it, the trickle down the back of his hand. She told herself it was necessary to not leave a trail, and her chest fluttered with pleasure at the taste. She kept licking it intermittently as she walked.   


People carried deer they'd hunted like this. Pigs, too, she supposed; that must be why it was called piggybacking.   


_I meant it. What I said._   
Meant _what? _He would be okay. He had to be. She had to give his coat back.


	9. And when I needed you most, I couldn't find language.

**** x  
  


The world was pain. Blinding, all-consuming pain. He didn't dare move, in case it made it worse, but his hand shook inside of itself, and that seemed to make it better. It was something to try to focus on away from his head. Holding onto his head and rocking might help, but that was too much moving to risk and too complicated to attempt, in any case. Whatever the bastards had done this time, it was a doozie. 

  
  


Scents permeated and unravelled slowly. Buffy. Figured. But that thought not feeling right… hard to chase down why. Maybe not her minions, these. Hoped they hadn't caught her too. Hoped they had, and the calvary would be coming for her. Not that he could get up to run with them if they did.   


Rocks, trees, leaves, cookies. Those ones out of place. No antiseptic, either. Give it up, don't worry about it now. Can't do anything about it in any case. Try to find that place inside to escape the pain.

  
  


Sounds, soft ones. Leaves, again. Rustling. Breathing. Calm, steady breathing. Went with her scent. Buffy, relaxed. It must be okay to sleep. 

  
  


Pain lessened, thinking became easier, and it occurred to him eventually that now that it wasn't the pain blinding, he probably had his eyes shut. This proved correct. But none of the images before him made any sense, and they wouldn't stay still for a moment. It only made his headache roar back, so he closed his eyes again.   


"Hey," Buffy murmured. " _ Hush _ ." She was closer now, her voice oddly low and husky.

"What's…" he mumbled out, then didn't know where he'd been going with it, or if the sounds meant anything.   


"Shh," she said again. "Here. Eat."

Her skin, warm and fragrant under his nose. A hint of a wound on it somewhere. Fangs slid from his gums and into her skin without permission, and she only flinched when he tore them straight back out again awkwardly.   


"Sorry," he mumbled, or tried to.   


"It's okay," she said. "Eat. You're allowed… it's not the first time." Two of her fingertips brushed across his brow softly, soothing and caressing.   


Dreaming. Had to be. He'd wake up again soon, strapped to a table with a man in a lab coat writing down observations of whatever he said in his sleep.   


_ Say nothing. Make the most of it.  _ Her arm brushed his lips again, and he opened his mouth and slid his fangs in carefully, letting the blood seep slowly onto his tongue on its own. Her arm was warm and comforting, and he resolved not to let it go.

  
  


He opened his eyes, and the information they presented him with made sense. Well, it didn't really - the view made no kind of sense - but it was there to be seen in its incomprehensible self. As if his eyes were finally speaking the same language as his brain again.   


More came back, too. He was in the forest somewhere. Not the Initiative. Humans had lost the plot (that one probably was the Initiative). Buffy wanted to eat him. He might have nibbled on her too, but that couldn’t be right. Where was she? Better not have lost her again. She moved too bloody fast; he'd soon have to tip her off that he was following if he didn’t want to lose her entirely. Course, then she might lose him on purpose.   


Could still smell her though. Very cautiously, he moved his head to look around further. No fresh influx of pain. Good. And one Buffy, sitting by the mouth of this small white room. Cave. White-rock cave. Somehow, he'd woken up in the mountain lion's den. Should probably be terrified. Inexplicably, felt safer for her presence.   


She turned to face him, and smiled uncomfortably. "Hey."

"Hey," he said back, sure of the words now, though his voice sounded husky and rough. "What the hell happened?"   


She sighed tightly. "You got shot in the head, Spike." She looked away again, her face closed off, angry with him.

Right. That's right. There'd been men, with guns. Caught the slayer. A  _ boy _ with a gun caught the slayer. Dunno why that should make her angry with him, but maybe she was just angry at everyone. He lifted his hand, thinking to feel out his head for the truth or otherwise of her statement. Stopped at the sight of his palm thickly wrapped in bandages, and turned it over curiously in front of his face.

"It went through your hand first," Buffy said. Guilt layered over her anger.

His hands, held on his head. He remembered now. Felt his head carefully, fingers searching out the place he thought his palm had been. Nothing felt particularly tender, but eventually he found a little dent under his skin, a crater in the bone underneath. "Think I remember," he said.   


"Yeah?" she asked, surprised.   


Made him wonder if they'd had this conversation already; everything between kneeling in the meadow and the last minute felt vague and drifty. "Yeah. Sorry. Guessing I've been out of it for a bit."   


"Three days." She shrugged. "Knew you had a hard head." Her voice was all stiff and false, and he got it now - she wasn't angry (or not mostly; she probably was angry too). But she  _ was _ upset. Tense and nervous. Gritting her teeth to push away tears. Poor thing had been having a bad enough time already before being saddled with a completely incapacitated him.

"I'm sorry, luv," he said quietly. Why was he apologising? She'd probably have been dinner if he hadn't been there.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she snapped. "Was that your plan to help, 'get shot in the head'? Because if so, it was the worst one you've come up with yet. And what was your cryptic message all about? Meant  _ what? _ And-" She slammed her mouth shut suddenly and held her hands up. "No, fuck, sorry." She sniffed and turned her face away quickly, but he could smell the salt from her eyes in the air before she started wiping her eyes on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, turning back to him. "Forget that. I'm glad you're, you know, more coherent." She was, too. Relief in the salt. Still felt like he only had part of the story; there was a big black hole over how and why he'd ended up here.

He went to push himself to sit up, point out that he was okay and maybe answer her wee outburst, but everything tilted drunkenly towards him as soon as he lifted his head. Alright. Better not try to have that discussion yet. "I'm still telling your mum you said the f-word," he said instead.

She sniffed a tiny laugh through her tears and stood up to move closer. "I hope so. God, I hope so." Gentler, she told him, "Lie down."

He let his head sink back down, and she sat down against the wall across from him. Now that she was closer, he could see a series of puncture wounds across one of her forearms, like she'd been a chew toy for an inexperienced leopard. Something warm and comforting to cling to… " _ Christ _ ," he murmured. "That was me, wasn't it? I never meant to… You didn’t have to."

"Never?" she asked, managing to pull a weak smirk. "And, I really did." She looked down, closing in again. "I might have… nibbled on your hand a little." There were embarrassment and apology in her tone, but some other worry too. Fuck, he was far too muddled to be trusted with important conversations today.   


He raised his bandaged hand again and wiggled it. "Seems I've still got all my fingers. Nothing you needed to make up for."

"You needed it," she said simply. "But… it's not going to do anything to me, is it?"

_Ohh._ There was the worry. "No. I'd have to drain you to-" to a picture he suddenly wished his brain couldn’t provide such graphic details for. "Drain you dry. _Then_ give you my blood. They teach you _anything _at slayer school?"

She relaxed visibly. "I don’t know; I didn't go, and skipped the homework."

"Probably for the best." His eyes felt heavy again, and he blinked slowly.   


"Go to sleep," she said softly. "Keep getting better."   


He wanted to object, keep talking, find out where they were. What he was lying on. What she wasn't saying. He should probably close his eyes to make it easier to think. He did.

" _ Hush, _ " she murmured, soothing and strangely familiar, and he slept.

  
  


When he opened his eyes again it was less bright, with an evening feel to the air, and he felt more properly rested. Buffy still sat across from him, now reading a dog-eared paperback with a spaceship on the cover, and he held still to study her properly while she was unaware. She'd put another t-shirt on over the one he'd given her, and it hung on her like a loose dress. She looked like she'd lost weight over the past two weeks, burning through her meagre reserves until she was all sinewy muscle and sharper edges, like a gazelle. Or a cheetah. A wild thing that relied on speed to survive, and couldn't afford to carry any backup. Or deadweights. Her cheeks were pale, and he wondered how much of her blood she'd let him take. Why she'd let him take any. How he came to be here, undusty (uneaten), when it would have been much smarter for her to have left him behind. She'd named him her friend, though. And that definition meant something to her; he'd been (could admit it now)  _ jealous  _ of the way she protected her little mates in the past. The way there was never the slightest doubt between them all that they'd do anything they could for each other, even when it might disadvantage themselves. It was something real, that he'd never known, but he guessed he did now.   


She glanced over and caught his eye with her dark, predatory ones, and closed her book softly. "Hey."

"Hey again," he said, and she smiled, obviously glad he remembered talking to her earlier. Christ, he must have been completely addled. Hopefully he hadn't said anything he'd want to regret. He stretched carefully, then manoeuvered his way to sitting up, leaning against the wall behind him. His right hand felt fine when he used it, and he eyed the giant bandage on it. "Can I take this off?"

"...Yes," she said slowly. "Does it feel okay?"

"Feels fine."

"And the rest of you?"

"Fine, I think." He looked at both of his hands together, and they seemed hard to relate to each other in space. "Mostly." He started unwinding the bandage, and things slowly fell into place more correctly.   


She watched, arms around her knees, eyes flicking between both of his hands and his face. "You will be, right?" she asked quietly.   


He stopped to look up at her. She really was worried. It felt strange. Nice, but strange. "I'll be fine. Vampire, remember? What doesn't kill us… is only temporarily inconveniencing."   


"I thought so," she said quietly. It sounded more like,  _ I hoped so. _   


He shrugged and flexed out the fingers of his newly-naked hand. The skin was pink and too smooth over his last two metacarpals, and in a smaller spot on the other side. "You broke my spine once," he reminded her. "That was worse. I got better." Eventually. At the mercy of Dru's whims and idle fancies. She'd done her best, but it had taken a lot longer than it could have.   


Buffy pressed her lips together and tilted them into a lopsided frown, sorry for the hurt but unable to cleanly apologise for her actions.   


_ You dick, that was a stupid thing to bring up.  _ "Course, if you hadn't, I might have actually managed to kill you, and that would have been a mistake," he added lightly.   


"No, you wouldn't have," she said, casually confident. "How's your leg feeling?"

Oh, right. Must be okay, since he'd all but forgotten he even owned legs. Christ, Buffy could have chewed his foot off and he wouldn't have noticed yet. He looked down at them, and found another bandage between his boot and his rolled-up jeans. He took that one off too, and found more new skin where the punctures had been. She must have given him a  _ lot _ of her blood. He looked up at her slowly and studied her more closely. "Where are we?"   


"A cave. High up, hard to climb to."   


"How far from… where we were?"   


"I'm not sure... Maybe half as far as I can walk in a day? I found it just before the next dawn, but I wasn't walking fast."

_ Because you were carrying me. Fuck.  _ "Buffy…"

She shook her head, dismissing any thanks. "You saved me first. Why, Spike?" Her eyes pinned him in place for a second, then skittered around nervously before jumping back to his face. She needed to know, and she was afraid to.   


"Because I love you."   


Her eyes widened slightly, then she swallowed and looked away. "Figures. Everything else has gone topsy-turvy this week. Why shouldn't you?"   


"No," he said, low and fierce. "Not just this week. I've loved you for a long time, Buffy. It just took me a while to stop trying to deny it."

She shook her head, almost fearfully. "You can’t, Spike. I don’t know what you think you feel, but it's not love. Soulless demons  _ can't _ love."

Anger flared, and he almost responded hotly. But there was pained defensiveness to her statement, and something almost familiar that he didn’t want to dig into. "Yes, we can," he said firmly instead.   


She shook her head again tightly, crossing her arms over herself; conversation over.

"Some people…" he said carefully, "just don't know how to love right. Soulless or otherwise. They don't know what it should be. It's not their fault, and it's definitely not yours."   


"And I suppose you think you do," she sneered.   


"I told you. Loving someone means not leaving them to face things alone. You know that. That's why it hurts you so much."   


"No. Look, I'm thankful whatever scheme you had to scavenge a meal off any people I had to- to kill meant that I escaped, but don't pretend you were there with any grander motive."

"I didn't have a  _ scheme, _ " he growled. "I never even-"  _ Stop. Breathe. She's upset, and frightened, and dangerous _ . It hadn’t occurred to him yet to wonder, but she must have killed those two people after he'd been shot _ . Talk plainly. _ "I didn't have a plan, Buffy," he said quietly. "That was it. Sometimes, love means kneeling in a meadow so they'll eat you instead of her."   


She looked at him silently for a long time, her own expression inscrutable. "How long were you following me?"   


"The whole time."   


She turned away, watching the darkening sky outside through unfocused eyes for a long time. He bit his tongue, studying the weariness on her face, feeling like an arse suddenly for pushing her now. But being shot down, he could deal with. Having his feelings denied though, that he had to defend against.   


Without turning back to him, she said quietly, "I could never love you, Spike. You have to understand that."

_ Careful.  _ "You feel something, though." He couldn’t expect her to be ready to face it. He'd only managed to get his own thoughts into order a few days ago thanks to the forced separation from her immediate presence.   


She looked over, her face cautious. "I do care about you. In a  _ friend _ way."   


That was… well, he'd gathered as much, unbelievable as it was, from the evidence of her not having either eaten him or abandoned him, nevermind the rest and earlier. But hearing her acknowledge it made it different, warmer. "I care about you too, luv," he said gently.   


Silence settled, not uncomfortably, and he massaged his hand slowly, smoothing out the faint ache in it from lack of movement along regrown nerves.   


"Are you hungry?" Buffy asked a bit later.   


He shook his head. "I'm fine. Don't weaken yourself any further on my account."

"You didn’t take much. I'd, um, I'd feel better if you did. Take more. It's hard to… be around you." She blushed faintly, studying her lap. "You need to get stronger quickly, and if I'm a bit weaker until you have… I'd feel safer."   


_ You'd feel safer being weaker around me? _ The chit was bonkers with her self-sacrificial insistence on protecting everyone else first. Not that he'd ever hurt her, but she should have more sense. More selfishness. What if she had to run, fight? Her internal struggle was obvious - in the careful distance she'd kept from him, in the constant dilation of her pupils, in the way she scented the air - but if she'd managed to control herself so far, she could carry on doing so. "No."

"Please, Spike. I don’t want to hurt you."   


Fuck.  _ God, yes. Hell no _ . "Okay. But then you go to sleep, and I'll keep watch. I can manage that." Given that he'd been lying on her sleeping bag and she looked long past exhaustion, she couldn't have had much - if any - rest since they got here.   


She nodded, then came to sit down beside him and thrust her arm in front of his face as if she expected him to chomp onto it like a shark. Crap, he probably had yesterday.   


"Are you sure?" he asked, holding her arm gently. Little marks and bruises from his chew-toy session marred her perfect skin everywhere. It felt like there were layers here he was missing, all mingled in with the fact that she was clearly not alright, had been deeply not alright since he woke up here, if she'd been able to be called so before.   


"Yes," she said, her voice a breathy purr. Proximity had her panting in short, deep breaths of the scent of him, her tongue flicking over her lips. It was inciting and arousing and frightening all at once, and his head was spinning in a way that was harder to find sensible thoughts in than ever. The only thing that was clear was that he was in far over his head in a very dangerous not-game.   


"Hurry up," she added, and he let his fangs rise and sink into her skin carefully.   


The taste of her blood, the tingle of heat and power, narrowed his focus down and made things simpler to grasp. There was her pulse, steady and rhythmic. He wouldn’t hurt her. There was her breathing, scenting him, relaxing slightly now. A minute later she relaxed too far, her arm becoming heavier and her head drifting down, and panic bolted through him. He let go with his mouth to shout, "Buffy!" and grabbed her shoulder to stop her falling.   


She shook herself and sat up with a jerk. "Sorry. Tired."

He gritted his teeth to stop himself slapping her, and gripped her shoulder tighter to stop himself hugging her to him. "Look," he growled. "Get in bed. Before you do wake up a bleeding vampire."   


For once, she didn't try to argue, and wriggled herself around until she was half in the sleeping bag, torn between tiredness and the urge to get closer to him. He let go of her shoulder and stood up, trying not to look like he was touching the wall for balance. The room stayed where it should, and he left the wall to walk across and sit down again before anything started tilting. Buffy lay down properly, and less than a minute later she was sound asleep.

He rubbed at his eyes. This whole situation was so far round the bend, it seemed pointless to try and think on it further just yet. He stood up slowly again, assessing how everything felt, then moved to the entrance to see where they were.   


He had to sit down again. The ground fell away into a sheer cliff face, far above the rocky ground. There was no way she could have climbed it. Looking around carefully, he found that the raised ledge across the front of the cave stretched out on either side, creating a very narrow walkway. Above his head the cliff continued, veering backwards so that he couldn't see where it ended. She couldn’t have found a more defensible position.   


He moved back from the entrance again, and sat down to watch her sleep. 

  
  



	10. Her teeth are razor sharp

**** +  
  


_ Spike’s in love with me. _ She wanted to deny it. She wanted to hurl it back at him, make him admit he just had some twisted vampire sexual attraction to her, and a death wish, and the sense to keep his meal ticket going. And to follow it through the woods for days. She knew if he said the words they’d be lies.   


She wanted him to feel nothing but menace towards her; she knew he never had. She wanted him to feel nothing. She wanted him. (She was the one with the twisted sexual thing, hunger and  _ hunger _ all blown to confusion from the denial of one and the lack of a target for the other for far too long.)

He was reading her book, sitting against the opposite wall. Or he was pretending to, anyway; he hadn’t turned a page since she’d woken up. Just like she was pretending she hadn’t woken up. He looked good. Far better than anyone should a few days after being shot in the head. Better than he had when he stumbled out of the trees. She must be a good nurse. When she wasn’t chewing on her patient. He smelt good, too.   


She sat up quickly, backing up to her own wall. This cave was too small. She felt too refreshed. He shouldn't be here. "I'm sorry- about what happened, with the deer, before. I didn't mean to do that to you," she stammered quickly.  _ Remember? You were supposed to get away from me. _

He closed the book and put it down, every movement slow and smooth, then met her eyes. "I'm not," he said softly. His voice was like his scent, his taste, all rich and decadent and heavy with promise. Had he always sounded like this?   


"How are you feeling?" she asked.  _ Can you run? Will you? I could catch you, Spike. However hard you run, I will catch you.   
_

"Good," he murmured. "Better."

"You should leave. You're not safe."

"Probably should," he purred. "Never do what I  _ should _ , though." He was watching her intently, eyes as predatory as her own must be.  _ Hungry.   
_

She stared him down, waiting for him to break, bolt for the door, the ledge. He didn't move a muscle, holding her gaze with absolute, inhuman stillness, until finally he blinked slowly and whispered, "You should have some breakfast, luv. From your backpack."

Food. Human food. She had some, in her bag. It would help. She grabbed her backpack and opened it quickly, fumbling blindly inside until she pulled out her water bottle. It was almost empty. She'd been trying not to run out while Spike was unconscious. She could fetch more now.   


"I'm going to fill this up," she said, then grabbed a couple of muesli bars and fled.

  
  


Along the narrow path, up onto another one, then following the sound of trickling until she found where she'd splashed through a runnel of water on her way here in the dark. Fill the bottle, drink deep, fill it again. Sit, eat. Breathe in. Breathe out. Now go and talk to Spike. It's not dark now. He's not going anywhere. You shouldn't be out here either, visible like this.   


"Feeling better?" he asked first, sitting midway inside the cave.

"Yes. But we can't stay together. It's too hard."

"You'll be okay, Buffy. I'm not going to make you lose your head. But I'll back off somewhere once it's dark, if you need."

That’s what he'd been doing, she realised. Refusing to give her an opening when she'd lusted for one. "Good. Okay." She paced to the door and checked the sky again; the sun was barely up. "We need to find out what's going on. Out there." It had been getting steadily quieter the last two days; no shots from the helicopters, very few from the distant forest.

"We will. Later."

"I think it's calming down a bit," she told him. Either people had caught most of the demons who'd fled into the forest, or the demons had caught most of the people who'd followed them. Probably both. "What bit you?" she asked. Fill the silence. Distract. He looked confused, so she nodded at his leg. "Big teeth."

"Oh. Yeah. They were."

_ Now _ he was dodging her eyes. "What was it?" she asked suspiciously.   


He sighed. "Bear trap."

"You got… caught in a  _ bear trap?" _ she asked disbelievingly.   


"Not  _ caught.  _ Just bitten.  _ You _ got caught. By a teenager with a baseball bat."

_ Blood hissing out, hot and sticky, saturating her shirt, skin, hair. The boy's body kicking weakly, twitching, gurgling, gasping, dying. _ "I killed him," she whispered. "I… I shot him in the neck. Then I shot his dad. People." Needing to confess. Needing to tell everyone. Things cringing inside of her, flesh cringing against jagged rocks in her chest.

"Don't think they qualified anymore," Spike said cautiously.   


"Yes, they did. It was- it's me who doesn't."

"No. People don't eat things alive, Buffy. Or things that beg them for help." He lowered his voice to a sinister murmur, "They were about to shoot you in the back so you couldn't run, and eat you while you screamed."

"That doesn't make it okay. You don't understand. Of course you don't, how could you - you don't even have a soul and  _ you'd _ have eaten  _ them _ if you could."

"Don't need one to get it. Kill or be killed, Buffy. You did what you had to."

"No. I could have- I didn't have to kill them." She could have hit the boy, broken his nose, knocked him out. She never should have touched the gun. Why had she?  _ Not going to make you lose your head.  _ Ha. Too late by days.

"That man would have shot you before you saw it coming." He huffed a humourless snatch of a laugh. "Like me."

It played out in her head; punching the boy, kicking free of him, jumping up… getting shot in the face.  _ Try again _ . Knock the gun clear, punch the boy, put him between her and his dad… hope the man gets close enough to tackle before he can shoot at her… watching him take the shot after that moment's hesitation, too overcome by bloodlust to put his son's safety before his hunger. There had to have been a way. She just couldn't see it yet.   


"Think  _ you _ can survive having your brain blown to bits inside your head?" Spike continued. "Think you could have run after? Fought? Something tells me I didn't do much of either."

She looked at him, at the sleek white hair on the side of his head where she'd licked the blood off like a cat cleaning a kitten. "You didn’t even move," she whispered. "I thought you were dead."  _ Everyone was dead. The world was dead, except for the still-bleeding boy that she couldn’t look at, couldn’t save, who was already dead too, only the last quivering nerves in his limbs didn't know it yet. _

"I am dead," he said plainly.   


"Deader."  _ I thought you'd gone away. _ She took a breath. "I wouldn't have run anyway. Wouldn't have left you there."

"I know. You're too humane for your own good," he grumbled.   


_ But not human enough.  _ Not the slayer, either, this week. "I should be down there. Slaying. Protecting people. It was a mistake, trying to run."

"No, it was keeping yourself alive so that when this is over, you can again," he growled, standing up, out of whatever patience he'd magicked up.

"There is no  _ over.  _ I killed people, Spike! And they- they've done hideous things. Nothing's going to go back to how it was!" She gestured angrily at the walls, the world, the things that were obvious to her but beyond the grasp or concern of a soulless killer.

Spike crossed the distance between them and grabbed her by the top of her arms fiercely, holding her in place. He said something, angry, but she didn't hear it.

"You're hurting me," she said over him in a quiet, serious voice that cut through his angry one.   


He paused for a beat, confused, then dropped her arms and stepped back as if stung, shaking his head quickly. "No. No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were. Hit me."  _ The chip, the chip was in his head. Where? _

He backed away across the cave, and she followed him step for step, until he stopped, refusing to be driven into a corner.   


"Hit me, Spike," she urged quietly. Her mouth was watering, and her eyes felt bigger, clearer, everything faster. Simpler. The air tingled, charged, ready to spark when she moved.   


"Not now," he whispered, then slid his own tongue across his lips, as she just had. "We're not fighting now, luv."

_ We can.  _ She was sure of it. "Why not?" she heard herself ask.

"Because," he murmured in a low rumble of vanilla and bourbon, "that's not what you want." He raised his hand, slow and steady, and traced the side of her face with one soft stroke of his knuckles. He was breathing in heavy little pants that matched hers; scenting her, like she was him, tasting her on the air. His hand continued down, trailing over her neck to settle on her collarbone softly.   


She watched his mouth, that soft bottom lip she'd bitten, the way his tongue caressed it now as if he was remembering too, and with pleasure. His thumb rubbed back and forth over her skin, smooth and firm, then he took her collarbone between his thumb and index finger and squeezed slowly, harder and harder until she knew she'd have two tiny bruises in the shape of his fingertips. Neither of them flinched.

His fingers relaxed again, until his cool palm sat lightly against her chest. "Fancy that," he said weakly, watching his hand, a tiny tremble running through it.

"You'll have to leave," she said quietly. "When this is over."

Spike swallowed, closing his eyes in a sweep of dark lashes, then raised them to hers. "That’s not now," he said softly.   


No. It wasn't. Now was his eyes staring into hers hungrily, longingly, fear pushed to the edges by the desire darkening their centres. "Are you afraid of me?" she whispered.   


"Yes," he said, and moved half a step closer, bringing their bodies to almost touching.

"I could leave." She could. Just back away carefully and go outside.

"Don't," he said in a despairing little whisper.   


"This isn't real," she whispered. "I'm not-"  


"Shh. This is for now."

He was still wearing the same shirt, with the rip at the collar. She could lick his skin there like she’d wished to. He would let her. Letting wasn't enough. She wanted what his eyes were saying. "What do you want?" she asked quietly.   


"I want  _ you _ ," he breathed.

_ Yes.  _ She closed the distance between them and brought her lips to his, hungry for the taste of him, the feel of him, for the rich and heady scent of him all around her. His tongue slid against hers, across her teeth and into her mouth, willingly heedless of the danger, and something in her thrilled at the rush of power she felt. Her fingers clenched on his chest, nails digging in, caught between tearing at him and holding possession of him. His hands had found their way to her waist, fingers splaying out across her back, pulling her against him. She found his lip with her teeth and held it gently for a second, then pulled away with a gasp while she still could.

A deep growl rumbled in him, and he chased her retreating mouth, kissing the edge of it, the side of her jaw, down to her throat.  _ He could bite back. _ That relaxed her, though it shouldn’t, and excited her too, though it really shouldn’t, the image of his fangs sending a fresh wave of hunger rolling through her. She moaned in answer to his growl, wanting, needing, one hand sliding down to the top of his jeans to tug him harder against her. The curve of his shoulder was near her mouth, and she bit down the bare skin it where it met his neck, holding tight. Spike twitched, hands squeezing her harder. “ _ Fuck, Buffy _ ,” he panted, then he turned them around to put her back up against the wall. His hands swept around and up under the front of her t-shirt, then his thumbs were rolling over her bare nipples and she had to let go of her hold on his skin to moan again. He pushed her shirt up further and bent his mouth to one nipple, swirling his tongue over it as he sprung the clip on her makeshift belt and nudged her pants down over her hips. She tugged at the top edge of his pants again, and his belt jangled as he turned his attention to undoing them.   


_ What am I doing? _ She kicked her pants off one leg and hooked her foot around his waist, reaching her hand down between them to touch him through the denim of his jeans as he fumbled with the buttons. He made a low, groaning sound, so she rubbed him harder, then his pants were falling open and down and the length of him was in her hand. She was wet, throbbing wet, ready for him to fuck her against the stone wall, ready to throw him to the floor and bite into that creamy chest, holding  _ all  _ the power now and almost giddy with it, but oh, wanting more from him.

He picked her up suddenly, and she snarled, snarled a snarl she’d never known she could make, at having to let go to grab onto his shoulders. He growled back, a deep vibration that raced through her, then she was on her back on the floor with his hand on her stomach pressing her down and his tongue sweeping across below her belly button. She reared up on one elbow to slap his restraining hand off her, then reached down, planning to shove his head away too and pounce back on top of him. But his tongue flickered down, teasing its way lower, and her fingers ran through his hair instead and pushed him closer, urging him on.   


She stopped asking herself what she was doing, writhing and moaning on a dusty cave floor while Spike murmured praises against her clit and kneaded her thigh with his strong fingers. She was sick of holding back, holding on, telling herself what she should do. For this now, she wasn't going to do what she should, either. 

  
  


**** x  
  


Had he thought he was screwed before? Ha. He'd known nothing. Not the taste of her pleasure, her skin, her throbbing wet centre, her pulsing veins. The sounds she could make. The  _ feel _ of her, like molten gold surrounding him. The want, the desire; the way she'd purred his name, wanting  _ him, _ needing him, eyes rolling back in her head when he held his hand to her mouth and let her bite until the blood ran while he thrust into her. She was life guaranteeing death; she was the blazing sun that would raze him to dust. He felt like he'd been mauled. He felt like he'd been reborn. He was never letting her go.

Near dusk she'd rolled onto her back beside him to catch her breath, then swiftly dozed off as satiation and week-long exhaustion combined. He lay there blinking at the ceiling, befuddled and muddled beyond any coherent thoughts, bruised and bloodied somehow  _ still _ hard. She was going to tear him apart. He was going to enjoy it. She made playing with fire a child's harmless pastime; she was liquid nitroglycerine in the sun, and he couldn't stop touching.

He could bite her back, reclaim what she'd taken from him with the paired half-moon bites that littered his body. Hell, he could bite anyone. Fangs into their jugular like butter, satiny skin under his tongue and no fur for the blood to seep through. He could bite her, right now, strike fast and hard and tear an artery wide before she could react, drown himself in the red of her. The thought twisted his stomach. But there was no 'before she could react'; she'd meet his mouth with her fist. She might be dozing, but he'd be a fool to think that meant she'd lowered her guard. He  _ was _ a fool. He wanted to lay kisses down her perfect throat again and drown himself in her sweet little moans, prostrate himself before her and tell her to take what she desired.

This wasn't just her new hunger, however much she might be going to try to tell herself that. No, he'd seen the flicker of this in her eyes from the first time they'd met. Sensed her bloodlust arousal every time they'd fought. This slayer would never be the tamed pet of those who professed to own her; she was a wild creature lurking in the costume of a girl. The costume was gone, out here, and she had given rein to her instinctive desires at last.   


It wouldn't last. It wasn't real. She wasn't really smelling him when she buried her nose under his chin and licked the underside of his jaw. He wouldn’t care, as long as she kept looking at him like that. Like she wanted him, like no one ever had. Like she wanted him to want her, as he did. He would draw his name from her lips a thousand times more, and when the lust for his blood had faded she would ache instead for the way he'd made her feel. If she didn't kill him first. 


	11. And there was slaughter in the water when I fought her

**** +  
  


There was a cut on the palm of her hand, or more of a graze, really, where she'd braced it against a little rock in the floor while she was on her hands and knees in front of Spike. Where she'd pushed back against the rough edge of the rock to meet his thrusts harder, drive him deeper, while words her brain had no right using in that context tumbled from her lips. _She_ had no right being in that context to let the words exist there. (_Don't stop, Spike. Fuck, god, yes._) They could all remove themselves from her vocabulary now, please. (_Please, Spike, need…_)   


He had better forget his threat to tell her mother she'd sworn. Not that he would be talking to her mother again. The chip was broken. He couldn't come back to Sunnydale. He needed to go far, far away, where she could pretend he didn't exist. Where she could try to forget about what she'd- they'd done. The way he'd poured endearments on her like maple syrup,  _ exquisite, glorious, sweet slayer-mine _ , until she thought she could feel them coating her skin and making it glimmer _ . _ The way biting him under his ear had driven him over the edge, made him slam her into the rocky floor like she’d never known she needed him to, violent and wild and strong enough to match her. She didn’t think she'd be able to walk straight right now. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so sated.   


She wanted more.   


At her back he was very quiet, motionless but for his soft breath. Tired. She hadn't hurt him, had she? She had, of course she had, his blood all sweet and tingly in her mouth when she'd nipped at him, but she hadn't  _ actually  _ hurt him, or done anything that was abnormal to whatever depraved vampire sexual activities he was used to, had she?   


She rolled over, away from him, grabbing the unzipped sleeping bag and wrapping it around herself quickly before she turned to face him.   


He was watching her with an indolent smile, smug and self-satisfied.  _ Brazen. _ It prickled up her neck; raised her hackles and tensed her jaw. Then something flickered on his face, there and gone, a wariness of his own he wasn't giving space to.   


There were bruises, bite marks, speckled across him, dirt from the floor darkening them in the places where she'd raised blood. She hadn't known she could bite so hard, so easily.

"Are you okay?" she asked, then felt her cheeks flame and dropped her face to the ground.   


"Takes more than a few lovebites to hurt me, pet," he said silkily.   


She couldn't ask.  _ Was that 'normal', for you? Was it… tame, by your standards? Is the entire demon world going to hear how the great Buffy Summers was a pretty lame shag, really? _ No.   


"We should go," she said curtly, and started picking up her clothes.

  
  


At first she tried to lead the way, hoping he'd be less distracting behind her, out of sight, his scent blowing away from her. The third time she stopped and turned around, he shook his head wryly and stepped carefully around her to go ahead. That was much better. She could watch his feet, see him planning his movements, be ready to react if he- He could leave, if he wanted. She would let him.   


She didn't need to be so close, now. She could let him get ahead a little way, think himself out of easy reach. She could slink along behind him, always keeping the same distance between them, no matter whether he sped up or slowed down, if he walked all night and into the next day. If he looked over his shoulder, she'd be there, ready to pounce. But he wouldn't need to look to know. He would be able to feel her eyes on him, know where she was, even though her feet were setting themselves down silently, careful and controlled.

They crossed the rocky ground that led from the cliff and cave, then moved into the forest. It was darker in there, darker and full of places to hide. He couldn't hide from her. She could trail his scent anywhere, that heady ribbon of delicious richness, or she could follow the tingle he laced down her spine.   


Did he know where he was going? It didn’t matter. There was nowhere to run. Only the forest, unending, timeless. It was okay to be as she was out here; nothing was as it should be out here. And everything was also exactly as it should be.   


Disappointment flared momentarily when she saw the building in the distance, for now she would have to turn some attention to other things.  _ Phone. News. Home.  _ Homesickness swelled up in her chest from far away, longings for the forgotten lasagna and new sheets and  _ mom _ , mom waiting and worrying and all of them waiting and worrying and her about them. She shook off her fixation as best she could and took the lead again, telling Spike to stay close.   


There was no one at the cabin. The air was tinged with demon blood, with charred bones, with gasoline; someone had burnt the remains of a carcass around the back. There was human blood too, Spike whispered, traces of it in the grass near the door, but the place was silent. The world was dead, as she'd known, dead in hissing blood and blackened bones, dead and gone into the immortal forest floor.   


She forced open the door and slunk inside, leaving Spike watching out from the doorstep. There was a phone. She lifted the handset enough to hear the dial tone, then set it down again. Anything could have happened in the last… week? Sunnydale could be blackened bones too, the forest encroaching in vines and moss. It was the middle of the night; maybe she should wait until a more reasonable hour. She picked it up again and punched in the numbers to call collect.

  
  


Joyce cried, though she talked through it bravely. "I'm sorry," she sniffled again, "it's just been  _ so long _ without any word. We've all been so worried. Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?"

"I'm fine." Except. But she wasn't about to share that. Had it been that long? She should have tried harder, earlier, to call. "I'm sorry. I couldn't find anywhere safe to ring from, and then Spike was hurt… I don’t know what's going on." With anything.   


"Are you safe to be talking now?"

"Yep. Spike's watching out."   


"He's okay then? Oh, I'm glad you're not all alone, honey."

She couldn't begin to think of what to say. "Yes… Is everyone okay there?"

"Mr Giles and your friends are all back at their homes. It's been peaceful all week, ever since the army teams clamped down and cleaned up. With no one affected here anymore, they're talking about dropping the curfew this week-"

"No one's affected there?"

"Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? All of us here at home got it out of our systems by day seven. As did everyone else who… stayed at home. It's strengthened by being fed; the virus, or whatever they're calling it now, needs the boost of supernatural energy to continue, otherwise it dies out and people return to normal. We think… but I shouldn't say that over the phone. The people who… fed, it lasted longer for. And they got stronger." Joyce blew her nose quickly. "The worst were given sedatives and monitored until they had cleared it from their systems too. Now they're searching for all the people who left the cities, followed the demons. There's- lots of people are missing. Oh, thank god you're alright!"

"Anyone we know?" Did it make a difference? It shouldn't. Someone had known the people she'd killed. Maybe they had a mother, wife, hoping for a call that would never come. Friends. Family.   


"Oh, it was terrible. Mrs Terson, who lives across the street? They dragged her out of her house, a great mob of people. We couldn't… couldn't go near to help. Terrible. I didn't even know she was a demon, poor woman."

"Oh."   


"Sorry, you probably want to hear about your friends… Faith’s doing fine. She's in Mexico; she's rung a few times. Angel too, far away from where she is. Riley's here working with the local army team - most of the ex-Initiative men are now - he's been by the house the last few days. He's been trying to find out more about what's going on over that way for us. They closed access to all the national parks days ago; soldiers are working their way through to search for survivors. So they say. They’re not safe. Oh, do be careful!"   


"Should we… can I come home?" Hating how small and plaintive her voice sounded.   


"You would be safer here now. But there's still roadblocks in between. You don't want to risk going through one; we're still under a state of emergency ruling."   


_ They could shoot you, no questions asked.  _ "Okay. So, we wait a bit longer." It was going to take days to get back to the car anyway. "I don’t…" She bit her lip. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Don't be ridiculous. I haven’t slept a wink all week, worrying if you were okay out there. You call me whenever it's safe to, baby. I'll always be right here."

She pictured her mom in her nightgown, sitting by the phone with the warm light of the desk lamp softly filling the room. A cup of herbal tea, with the tag hanging over the edge. Impossible foreign dream. Something once seen on a greeting card. "Thanks, mom," she whispered past the lump in her throat. "I'll call again when I can."

Buffy hung up the phone with a soft click, then stood there for a minute with her fingers still touching it. Night sounds crept in again, colourless sounds, insects and the wind through the trees, an owl in the distance. She walked outside slowly, and repeated what her mom had told her.

"So we head back to the car," Spike said at the end. "Hope that by the time we get there it's safe to drive home."

_ I will not be safe to drive home.  _ She was not a home creature anymore, or a car creature. Thinking was too hard; she shook her head to herself. "Okay."

Spike went inside the cabin and opened all the cupboards, searching his way quickly and methodically through the place. He came back empty-handed, and she motioned for him to lead the way again. 

  
  


She hadn't given back his coat, though he must know she had it, because he hadn't asked. Now she thought maybe she should take it out; order him to cover up his lovely skin, the way the muscles and bones shifted in his back and shoulders through his tight t-shirt as he walked. She could bite the point of that shoulder blade, hold him down broken-winged, bite deeper. A light-footed dash, leap, sink her teeth in as he fell. He would fight back, deliciously. She would win.   


He was listening to her, she knew. Something in the way he held his head, his body, told her he was ready and waiting for her to strike. Wanted her to, perhaps, and that held her back. She would not be controlled by this obsession, or be lured by the swagger he was putting into his step. She would not let some sordid zombie-virus push her into doing… that again.  _ That's not why you enjoyed it. _ Shh. Yes it was. She couldn’t be held responsible. She pounced.   


He ducked, twisted, met her leap with his fist and sent her flying. She hit the ground and rolled up into a crouch, tasting her own blood on her lip, licking at it and imagining his. His eyes glittered in the dark, locked on hers, both of them knowing now what would be next, but not where it would end.   


"Are we fighting now?" she whispered.   


"Yes," he breathed, fervent, desirous. Then he came at her, more ferocious than she'd ever seen him, a creature caged too long and finally bursting free in a maelstrom of savagery.   


She met him blow for blow, thrilling in it, living in it, never wanting it to end. Needing to be closer, rougher, and soon they were on the ground, wrestling in the sticks and leaves, snapping and clawing and snarling like a pair of cats. A fang sliced across the top of her shoulder, and she twisted to bite him on the ribs with a hiss. He elbowed her mouth away and she felt his skin give slightly as it came free, then she caught one of his wrists and gripped it hard enough to feel the bones grate. No one was winning. Both of them were winning. It was all about the brutal joy of fighting in a strange kind of bruisingly rough intimacy.

She froze when the mood shifted, when her ankles hooked together behind his legs and shoving him away turned into pulling him against her, when the grip he had in her hair turned into massaging the back of her head. Froze panting with her blood strumming loud in her veins, suddenly very aware of herself again, of him over her, of his neck near her mouth.   


" _ Do you want me to let you go?" _ she whispered, because she  _ had _ won now, she knew it, he knew it, it had never been otherwise.   


" _ Buffy _ ," he growled, low and jagged, close to her ear, " _ don't you ever. _ " There was a quivering plea in it, and a quivering answer in her.   


She bit down on his clavicle and pulled him closer with her legs.

  
  


**** x  
  


Near dawn they found a hollow tree trunk and crawled inside, both exhausted, both nervous of moving during the day if soldiers were searching the forest. Buffy opened her backpack and offered him his coat, the unspoken with it; he could take it and go. He told her to keep it for a blanket, and she put it on before curling up in a ball to sleep.   


He wanted to fold himself around her, be gentle, kiss her slowly and tenderly. There was no way she would tolerate it.  _ This isn't real,  _ she'd reminded him again earlier. It was only what she was allowing under the circumstance. Only what she was allowing herself out here. He was a fool for imagining she'd do anything other than kick him to the curb - from her life, from her town - the moment she returned to it. He was a fool for wanting more now, when he'd just had the best bleeding shag of his unlife on the forest floor (bleeding, literally). But oh, he did. He wanted it all. If she'd let him hold her softly he could pretend this was real, and whatever came later could fuck off until then.   


The bones in his wrist hurt, damn near broken, and he made a note not to let her spot the weakness when she awoke. It would make him prey, and he couldn't afford to push the wobbly overlapping lines between wanting to chew on him, slay him, and shag him. And if she thought she'd gone too far, that'd be the end of it. He could tell her he'd had a million times worse and called it foreplay, but that would only disturb her more; she was the girl who protected everyone from that violence in the shadows, not perpetrated it. She wanted to hurt him even less than she wanted to want him, and she was struggling enough with the second. No, he needed to play this carefully. Encourage her to indulge out here. Let her call it temporary. Keep touching that place inside her, the catch in her breath and the speeding of blood in her veins that wouldn't let her forget afterwards.   


She was asleep now. He could curl beside her carefully, shelter her from the doorway and watch her gentle lips and soft eyelashes. Whisper that he loved her,  _ truly _ loved her, and would show her what that meant.

  
  


For five nights they walked south, retracing their steps cautiously. Things became messier the further they went. Circles of blackened earth from bonfires - demon remains gathered and burnt to dust by the army forces. Human remains found and removed, but the stench of death and blood still heavy where they'd been. They saw no people, no soldiers, no demons.  _ The world's dead, _ Buffy whispered to herself several times, and he couldn't find a way to prove her wrong. He worried she was becoming wrong, wronger, too much alone, too much at war with her feelings towards him for him to be the company she needed. He worried she was becoming stronger, too.

They caught a deer, and she caught him on top of its body. He ate the deer, and she licked blood from the places she'd raked at him with her claws, and he wondered what scientists would call this food chain when he'd drunk from her too. Short-lived, probably.   


They found an abandoned tent, half-collapsed by what she feared was a demon attack but his nose told them had been a bear. Maybe the people had run from it. More likely they'd become one of the patches of bloodstained grass a mile back. Either way, there was food in cans that hadn't interested the bear, so they refilled her backpack.   


Finally they reached a familiar path through the trees, a familiar slope of a hill. They dropped down to the empty road, followed it for another mile, then stepped through the grass and over a slight rise. And there was the DeSoto, incongruous, impossible, an object that had only ever existed in a long-forgotten dream. He stared at it dumbly.

"Least you remembered where you parked," she said faintly.   


He turned back to her and saw the same thing on her face, the strange confusion and dawning realisation. There were things beyond this forest. The two of them had existed beyond here. They had come here in this object, and soon enough they would leave again. For just a moment, he wished he had not remembered. 'Later' was suddenly very close. 

  
  



	12. Your hands are cold, that's why I try to contain you

**** +  
  


They could go home (she could go home).  _ How peculiar.   
_

She walked out of the cabin and didn't know what to say. Spike watched her across the sunny clearing from his spot in the shadows under the trees, her wild creature of the forest, her indulgence in those moonlit places of primaeval life and death and decay. But it was written in his eyes; he didn't want to be that. It was in the softness of his face when she caught him watching her, in the way he kissed her skin. He hungered for the humanity in her, for the things she was holding firmly behind walls; he longed to step into her tame places. But she could not bring a wolf home from the forest. She could not bring her own claws home from the forest.  _ This has to end. _   


"Tonight," he said. "I'm not driving in the day."

She nodded. That was best. Safest. That left her a whole afternoon. God, how was she going to cope in the car? Maybe he should lock her in the trunk. She’d got worse, day by day, she knew. Real viciousness now in the way she bit down and wrenched at his skin; harder and harder for her to hold off from doing real damage to him. Thank god he could fight back. And, oh god, he could fight back. He was never going to drop her off at her front door and step back into his arrested unlife of the past ten months, fighting demons and dodging humans and snarking at her on patrol.   


_ Tie her up and torture her until she loves me again. _ Kidnap her friends for a love spell. Get back to civilisation and remember exactly what he was, forget these two weeks of insanity, and slaughter half the town before coming gunning for a final showdown with her.  _ Pretend _ he was still playing at being a grey hat, pick off his dinners sneakily and keep getting information and assistance from her while everything settled into however it would be after all this. More likely: lock her in the trunk, get drunk, and forget she was there.

_ Arrested _ . She would be. The police would know the men's -  _ man's, boy's - _ names; their family would be waiting to watch her sentenced in a courtroom. There was nothing she could say to them that would make it any easier.   


Her brain scuttled to a stop around this point, as it had every time, survival instincts kicking in to override complex higher thoughts and force her to tunnel vision on the here and now.

Because none of that was yet. It was still later. And she could not let it cripple her out here.   


She crossed the open ground and joined Spike in the shadows, glaring away when he tilted his head at her in concern. He pursed his lips and started walking, and her eyes prickled hotly at her as she followed.   


They fucked away the remaining hours of daylight in their cave, her with an extra layer of violent possessiveness, him both fiercer and gentler than he'd ever been.  _ Just this once, _ he whispered at sunset,  _ let me love you properly.  _ His teeth were blunt and kiss-soft on her earlobe; he held her down with hands of immovable iron and forced her to take him slowly, closely. This couldn't be. She thrashed and bit until she held him down instead, and snarled until he fought back properly. Darkness rose in him then. Yellow eyes glared into hers and he growled,  _ I could keep you, slayer. I could drain you and turn you and never let you go. And we would be like this forever.   
_

_ Just try me, _ she snarled back. This had to end. It was going to end. Today. The sun was setting. There was nothing but this taste of him, and it wasn't enough. He was wriggling now, trying to get away; there was fear in the air like blood in the water and blood like liqueur coating his chest. She needed all of it. All of him.   


She protected her throat while she wrestled him down in case he'd meant his words, but when the syrup of his blood coated her tongue thickly she lost herself in the pleasure of it. His hand and not his fangs settled on her neck softly, only the blunt pads of his fingers pressing into the sides of her throat, so she disregarded it in the background. Then he was over her, kneeling over her, weight on his hand. The sound of his ragged breath muted, muffled away strangely beside her own eager moan, and the blackness was fogging in on her before she realised what he was doing. Panic tried to rear its head, screaming at her to fight her way free, but the hand she told to punch him was heavy and sluggish and sank to the floor. Then the muffling blackness became complete, and there was nothing. 

  
  


**** x  
  


He tightened his grip when he felt her muscles harden in panic, his own nerves screaming that she was about to kick him off and stake him without a split-second's thought. Then she softened again, consciousness fading fast until she lay limp and lax beneath him, head lolling loosely against his hand. For one endless second everything crashed chaotically in his brain.   


He'd caught the slayer. The deadly, lethal slayer who'd just torn clean through the skin and muscle on his bicep with her teeth, those teeth scraping bone, unnoticing, uncaring, lost in her hunger at last.   


She was going to hate him for this (better to be hated than eaten).   


He could do it. Turn her. Remake her in darkness and bloodlust, have forever the parts of her he'd had out here. Or some of them. There'd be no friendship. There'd be no caring. There'd be coldness and deadness in her eyes. It wouldn't be her. He'd never meant it.

She was horribly, terribly limp. Unnatural. Wrong. All wrong. Fear swallowed him, and his hand moved from her neck to cup the side of her face, lost in the urge to shake her and beg her to wake up again.  _ Stake me, hate me, eat me, just be alive again.   
_

She was alive though. Only out cold, and it wouldn't last. She'd be up in another second or two, up and spitting and hitting, snapping and hissing. His arm hurt like a bitch.  _ Be fast.   
_

His teeth sank smoothly into her neck, clean and silky straight into her artery, and he felt her already starting to stir slightly as he pulled on it. She fought him as she came round, pushing at him weakly, then stronger, blood pumping out faster, harder, her blood pressure spiking to help her fight. He caught a knee to the ribs and held her shoulders tighter to stop his teeth tearing her as she moved. Finally the gush of her blood slackened, like someone was turning down the tap. Enough? It would have to be. Couldn't risk taking too much. He leapt off her and straight to the door of the cave.   


She was on her feet in a flash, snatching a stick from the ground for a weapon as she rose and clapping her other hand to her neck. A second later she thumped back to her arse on the floor as her blood pressure failed to keep up and she had to sit down or faint there. "You asshole," she panted.   


"Sorry, luv," he said, aiming for a soothing tone. "Can't let you eat me. Gotta drive you home, don't I?" Fuck, he'd better tie her up. She didn't look at all calm or subdued. She looked shocked, and still hungry. "I'm sorry," he said again, hoarse now.

She only stared at him with those black eyes, her surge of adrenaline giving over to dazed confusion, leaning unsteadily closer to lying down.   


"Didn’t mean to frighten you, pet. You just got a bit carried away, right? Not gonna hurt you." He needed to cover up his arm before it drew her in again. Needed to cover her up too, before she caught on to the fact that she was naked as well as weakened. He edged over to her backpack and felt out her towel inside it, then brought it across to her slowly and draped it over her. "Here. I'll find your clothes."   


She dropped her makeshift stake to pull the towel tighter around herself with fumbling hands, then cautiously sat up a little. "Cold," she muttered.   


He grimaced.  _ Me too.  _ Everything here had become barren and bleak suddenly, like a fey glamour had been lifted from the past few days to reveal the true harshness of the environment, the abrasiveness of the stone walls, the sting of the wounds to his skin, the shadows swirling around her feet. A shiver of a chill ran through him, even though he was warm in his body; warm with the heat he'd stolen from her. Moving quickly, he retrieved her clothing and brought it to her, backing off and turning away to get dressed himself when she covered herself from him anxiously. He understood. Things were all wrong now. The very air here would scathe them.   


When she was dressed he shouldered her backpack, then crawled outside with her following slowly and offered her a hand to her feet. She accepted his help confusedly, then stood wobbling like a newborn foal while he settled his coat around her shoulders.   


"Not gonna hurt you," he murmured again. "Taking you home now, luv. You'll be alright there." The chill-tremble shivered through him again, and he tucked the coat closed around her tightly before picking her up. She wriggled and complained, but he was strong now and she was… less, and it got her nowhere as he hastened towards the car. The forest floor was soft under his feet with its depth of decaying leaves, everything decaying, tiny things crawling through it in their great multitudes to hasten the destruction. He felt the ground would sink beneath his feet, swallow them down into the leaf litter and rotting wood, into the haunt of strange primordial insects waiting to digest them. He held her closer and ran.   


The car was all cold inert metal, hard plastics and vinyl. He settled Buffy into the passenger seat, shushing her nervously when she spoke. Wrapped up in his creeping fears, she burrowed deeper down and fell silent. He got in his own side, then reached across her to the glove box and dug out a set of handcuffs. She fought, of course, but a moment later her wrists were cuffed to the inside of her door securely.   


"Sorry, luv. Can't have you chomping on me while I drive."  _ Sorry, sorry, sorry. What's happened to us? _ Her skin was cool and clammy, barely warmer than his own; it seemed to numb him, render him insensate. "Are you okay?"  _ No, of course not _ . "Sor-"  _ Forget that _ . "We're going."   


She watched him wide-eyed, pale-cheeked, heart fluttering fast and light like a sparrow's inside the shallow cage of her panting chest. A thing not made to be trapped. Twisting against her restraints, she wriggled up against the door more to face him head-on. Silent questions and fears flickered through her dark eyes for a long moment, then, "Okay," she mouthed quietly.   


"Okay," he repeated with a nod, grabbing onto the anchor of it. She would be okay, slayer strength already racing to replace what she'd lost. They would be okay. She would need… He reached into the back and hunted out the water bottle in her backpack, passing it to her gently.   


Forest sounds swooshed up louder, branches rustling all around, overhead, closing in. Reaching for them, hungry for them, malicious and malevolent, making him shudder. He gritted his teeth and turned the key in the ignition, breath held until the engine caught, roared; revved it up to snarl its defiance at the wild places. Then dropped it to a rumble, into gear, easing into reverse motion; don't let the rotting things slide away the power from the wheels and drag them down into the maw of the earth.   


Tyres found solid road and gripped it firmly. Tree-surrounded road; he held his breath further. The towns and open planes were ahead in the night, filling the night; last lifetime's narrow streets of burning cars and hungry people, grabbing, grasping people. He could fight them now. He would fight them now. They would not get near this car. "Hush, luv," he whispered to her, although she was silent. "You rest. We'll be home soon."   


She sipped some of her water awkwardly and squashed up tighter in her coat, and he thought maybe there was a flicker of cautious agreement in her big dark eyes. Twenty minutes later she was starting to nod off, heavy eyes still trying to watch everything, his face, the windows.   


_ "Hush _ ," he whispered again, to them both. " _ No one's getting us. _ " A deep growl followed the words, a low, deadly sound of warning that rumbled steadily and unbidden. It pushed back the strange fears and he let it continue, let it set his focus.   


Buffy watched him for a moment longer, then closed her eyes and slept. 

  
  


The towns he snuck them through in the dark all carried the acrid stink of fire, differently scented from that of the forest - more burnt plastics and rubber, enamel paint and synthetic fabrics. Harsh in his nose and sandpapery in his throat. Houses burnt, cars burnt; things that should not be burnt reduced to blackened ruins in the early days of upheaval. Stoves left unattended when people lost their heads; structures burnt purposefully to force out their prey. It did not surprise him. There was always fire, from one source or another, always the charcoal and the ashes and the slumped, disfigured shapes, as though landscapes were intrinsically linked to the psyche of their inhabitants and duty-bound to reflect the devastation there. The streets were blessedly silent and the smoke might be gone now, but the scent would linger for months, years, a toxic stain on everything it had touched.   


His growl rose and abated with the speed of their travel, never fully subsiding, more comforting than any purr. Buffy’s feet stretched out to tuck up against his thigh as she slept, and he covered them safely with his hand, rubbing along the side of one arch with his thumb occasionally. Nothing felt secure anymore, outside, inside, everything torn apart and yet to settle into whatever new form it might assume. The chip was gone at last. He'd captured the slayer (half drained the slayer). He was full, powerful, power-filled. He'd just spent most of a week shagging the living daylights out of her, gloriously. The living daylight of her was hiding, tucked away inside his coat. He loved her. The sky was dim and murky, and he couldn't find the moon. 

  
  


**** +  
  


" _ Buffy, luv, wake up _ ." Spike's voice was a gravelly murmur, too heavy with reluctance to carry any sense of command. She wanted to roll inside of it and go back to sleep. " _ We're here, _ " he whispered. The backs of his fingers were stroking her cheek softly, and she leaned into them for a moment as the sleep-fog lifted.   


The car had stopped. Stopped and switched off.  _ We're here. _ They couldn't be, could they? She sat up a little, rubbing her face and blinking at the window. Rubbing her face. She paused to look at her naked wrists in confirmation. They'd been cuffed, last she remembered; no longer. Looked at the window, again, out through it: they were parked right outside her house.   


She opened the car door, everything spacey and dream-like. Feet on concrete. On the path she'd run down so long ago. On the steps leading up to the porch. Spike shadowed her, then moved in front of her, as solid as the concrete, as hard and as gritty, suppressing the gnawing need inside of her with his overwhelming strength to her weary muscles.   


Knocking, knuckles tap-tapping on painted wood, civilised and proper. Sheath your claws before you step inside, kitty-cat. And leave your mangled prey outside, please.   


Then mom was there, opening the door, flooding light out, touching with gentle caution, then hugging and taking her into the house. Voices and sounds and emotions rolled loosely around the hallway, clattering into things, until she was sitting on the couch in the living room where they had more space to spread. A glass was pressed into her hands, and she sipped from it robotically; juice, acidic, orangey and strange. Giles's voice had joined Joyce's; a blanket had joined the coat on her shoulders, making her feel smaller.   


_ Drink your juice, Buffy. You look thirsty.  _ Mom's hand on her cheek, forehead; Giles's lifting her chin to see her neck. Loud questions and the bang-slam of a door closing, but she was tired, so very tired, limbs heavy again, all of the blanket constraining them. She shook her head to the questions. A  _ Shush! _ came from her mother sharply, silencing them, then arms wrapped around her and her blanket, pressing her tight to her mother's chest. The  _ shush _ again, only softer now, meant for her. Mom stroking her hair, it all brittle and rough but she too tired to apologise or complain. Then she was being nudged up the stairs, into her bedroom and her bed. It was late, she remembered, sometime in the wee hours; her mother was wearing a dressing gown. Spike had gone somewhere, out of sight but not away. She let herself be tucked in, and went back to sleep at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments, people! It's so super encouraging and smile-giving, really means a lot 💙
> 
> Also, this fic does have a happy ending for our two poor forest creatures, hang in there ;)


	13. Today, I haven't got a clue

** + **

"What happened, honey?" her mother asked gently as soon as she got up, giving her neck a pained look. Buffy had barely put her feet on the carpet; Joyce must have been hovering in the hall in wait. "Spike stormed out when Mr Giles asked him," Joyce continued. "But I hope you didn't run into trouble getting home? Oh, I should have told you to wait-"

"No-" She shook her head. "It was fine… He- Spike looked after me." Somehow, the entirety of it felt like something she needed to unpack and arrange before deciding which parts to share. She zipped her mouth.   


Joyce nodded slowly, but pursed her lips and didn't push further. "Would you like some breakfast? Or do you want to get cleaned up first?"

"I think I'd better go for the cleaning one," Buffy said dryly. She hadn't faced the mirror yet, but there was dirt all over her new sheets where she'd crawled into them last night. "Just…"  _ don't go weird while I'm in there? _   


"I'm so sorry-" Joyce said again, struggling to keep her composure.   


Buffy shook her head again, harder. "Breakfast sounds great afterwards. But I might be a while."

"You take all the time you need," Joyce said with gentle firmness. "I've told everyone to wait for me to call before they race over here."   


"Thank you," she said gratefully. 

  
  


The face looking back at her in the mirror was hardly recognisable. It looked like it belonged to some feral creature that had rolled in the mud and the blood of the wild woods for two and a half weeks. Wait, no, that was her. Her with the crazy, piercing eyes and the holes in her throat, her with the blood-caked tangles in her dingy hair. She turned her back on the mirror and flicked on the shower; as nice as a bath sounded, it would only change colour as soon as she got in.

She scrubbed at her skin until it was tingly and pinkish, then scrubbed it again. With her hair shampooed several times and now smothered in conditioner, she picked up a comb and began the painful job of untangling it. Afterwards it felt smaller, sleek and slippery again, tame eels sliding about on her shoulders. She rinsed it a final time, then got out and picked up a towel. What had happened to hers? Spike had taken her backpack to the car, she vaguely recalled. God, that wound on his arm. The sensation of her teeth in it rushed back; the cool, succulent flesh on her tongue, the scrape of silky smooth bone against her incisors. Her mouth watered with a mixture of hunger and nausea, and she had to grab onto the sink until it had passed.   


He would be okay. He'd been so strong when he manhandled her to the car, when he handcuffed her into place. The blood he'd gained from her would help it heal fast, like his hand had, his leg had.   


He'd been scared, though. Tinged with fear when she bit him horribly, but terror-stricken afterwards, when they fled, when they snuck away through the forest; scared for them both, even after her viciousness. It had frightened her through her confusion, his shaky voice, his tear-streaked face, the unknown and unfaceable foe that was threatening them from outside the car. Only the deep promise in the growly sound he'd made before her had let her give in to the need for sleep.   


He'd still been nearby when she went to bed here, brushing the edge of her awareness like a feather-light caress. Somewhere in the hours since then he'd slipped away, escaped at last; to what and to where?  _ You can’t stay in Sunnydale,  _ she'd told him days ago,  _ not without the chip _ .  _ I can't…  _ He'd shushed her, and there'd been no agreement. On anything. But he must know. He knew what she'd done to Angel. And she'd loved Angel. If Spike had any sense, he'd take his newly restored freedom and get far, far away from her.   


_ I don’t leave. Not ever. That's not love… I meant it, what I said.  _ He'd have changed his mind now, surely. Now that he was no longer reliant on her, now that he was no longer right beside her. Now that she'd proven herself too dangerous, or now that she was washing the dangerousness away to become prim and proper again.   


In her bedroom she picked up a jar of vanilla bean moisturiser and sniffed it slowly. Its scent was all shallow and false, but it drew out the memory of the deeper, richer notes it was missing; whisky and pine needles, cream and golden sugar, cool blood and musky sex. They'd all be in his coat, in luscious fullness, hiding in her closet where she'd stowed it away safely before the shower. She took some moisturiser out and rubbed it into her feet, along the long bones, down the inside of her arches. He'd stroked her there, in the car, thumb firm and secure, fingers wrapped protectively across the rest of her foot. She kept rubbing until the moisturiser had soaked in and there was only the whorled patterns of the lines in her skin.   


Seven days. Seven days of limbo where anything could be true. Would she hear if someone was killed? Were things… organised yet? Was Moira… She needed to fill in all the blanks. Putting down the moisturiser, Buffy pulled on a sweatshirt and her sneakers before cautiously making her way downstairs. 

  
  


A house across the road was broken. Windows boarded up, police tape across the front yard.  _ It was terrible,  _ her mother said again.  _ We were so afraid for you.  _ Buffy held her coffee cup close and watched a car passing slowly, following the sound of its engine away once it was out of sight.   


The phone rang, and Joyce was sternly telling them to wait to be invited, before Buffy cut in and told her to let them come now and get it over with.   


Giles, Xander and Anya, and Willow and Tara all arrived while she toyed with a bowl of breakfast, impatient to lay eyes and hugs on her at last. Everyone spoke over each other, information and questions flying rapidly. They were all so familiar here suddenly, with  _ her _ kitchen, with  _ her _ mom; a bitter little outsider-jealousy rolled up and hung over her like a cloud. She let them think her tired, said little, and encouraged them to stop sympathising and get on with the fact-sharing.

_ Seven days, _ Giles told her again. Stay home, rest, recover, catch up (don't eat anyone). Don't patrol.  _ There's nothing to patrol for, in any case.  _ Seven days to get it completely out of her system, no matter what she'd consumed; they all seemed to be assuming she'd been hunting her way through the forest gobbling up demons, and she was uncertain where to start with correcting that idea, or whether she even should. It sounded so much better than the truth.   


The townspeople were all trying to forget, explain away, sanitise. The rabies explanation was holding, being seized upon with gusto; the media and the army were all trotting out the same lines. People had been killed by demons. People had been killed by each other. Demons had been killed by people, but the trickle of information Angel had been able to gather indicated that the majority had fled safely. They'd be back. The most aggressive first, probably, looking to establish themselves at the top of the hellmouth hierarchy before everyone else returned.  _ Is that me? Most aggressive supernatural creature on the hellmouth.  _ Her head hurt.

Voices turned conspiratorial when they got to the subject of the Initiative; fast and eager when it came to the excitement of their raid on the place. They'd recovered files on the viral experiments, on Professor Walsh's hopes of altering a virus found in gne'trusca demons into something that would grant soldiers the ability to feed on supernatural energy and gain inhuman strength and abilities from it. How the experimental strain had escaped was unknown, but the demonic fruit flies used in testing it were a likely contender. However it had happened, the virus had proved unable to spread between humans, and the fruit flies were both short-lived and infertile outside of the lab.   


Excitement drained away again. "Even once we knew what was going on, there was nothing we could do," Willow said morosely. "We just had to sit here and watch it run its course."

"And thank goodness it did," Giles added. "There are still humans out there carrying it, people that followed the demons. The army… they're determined to thoroughly wipe it from existence. Anyone who doesn't surrender themselves when questioned is executed, bodies burnt." He shook his head. "Humanity seems to have taken a backseat this month."

"I need to talk to you," Buffy said to him quietly while Xander was holding everyone else's attention.   


The sombreness on Giles's face deepened, and he nodded once. "Of course."   


A bit of theatrical yawning later, the gang got the message and gave her a final round of hugs before preparing to leave. Giles shared a quiet word with Joyce, and she offered Willow and Tara a ride home.   


Buffy waved them all out, eyes prickling suddenly, then followed Giles back to the living room. She sat down on the couch, then stood up again and folded her arms, pacing closer to the window. Giles sat calmly in his chair, waiting, his face gentle and patient.   


She took a deep breath. "I killed someone, Giles. Two people."

He didn't say anything immediately, so she looked back to see his face. It was still gentle and kind, only now coated with a layer of sadness. "I was worried you may have to," he said quietly. "Would you like to tell me what happened?"

_ No.  _ And,  _ yes. _ She needed to spill it all out to someone who would react appropriately, castigate her and take steps to see that she paid the price for her actions.   


She perched on the edge of the couch's seat, tight and low and small, and haltingly explained about the man and his son and the baseball bat, the guns, the threats and the blankness in their eyes.  _ Spike distracted them, _ she stumbled through,  _ and I shot them. _ The enormity of Spike on his knees, the blood and the chip and the reasons for it all, was not for the outside, not yet, maybe not ever.   


Giles moved slowly to sit down beside her as she talked, facing the coffee table with her now, and she was able to suck in another wobbly breath and finish.  _ We ran away. I think I still have the gun. I don’t know who they were... _

"We can find out," Giles said softly. "There are missing persons lists on the Internet, with photographs for identification. We can… let them know to stop searching and wondering."

"Is that better?" she asked quietly. "To  _ know,  _ instead of being able to hope?" It was moot anyway; they'd have to be told.

Giles shrugged one shoulder. "It's better than some of the scenarios that will be haunting them."   


"What happens next?" she asked quietly.   


Giles sighed. "If we go through civilian channels… you'll be required to give a statement, detailing what you observed of the hungered - the affected people; where they were, any distinguishing features, how they behaved before being 'controlled'. You'll be required to give a blood sample, to ascertain your own status. Then you'll be released. There's no legal protection for anyone affected; their human rights are null and void as long as they remain so. Even were they not, you only acted in self-defence. There's no crime in that."

"So… I won't be charged for it?"

"Indeed." Giles's voice remained soft and calm, his hands quiet on his lap.

"But… that doesn't seem fair."

Giles dipped his head in assent. "The system is flawed. Rife with opportunities for exploitation. But it's the best they've come up with. And in your case, it's exactly what should happen. This wasn't your fault, Buffy. You've managed remarkably well under the circumstances, and I'm so very proud of you for the difficult choices you've made."   


A little sniff-sob broke free in her chest, and Giles turned to her and opened his arms. She hugged him carefully, just holding softly and being held for long moments until the lump in her throat sank back down. Sniffing slightly, she sat up again and wiped at her eyes, and he lifted his glasses to do the same.   


"You said 'civilian channels'," she asked quietly. "What else is there?"

"We have the option of filing a report via the council. It would remove any association with your name, but still allow the people to be identified and located."   


Buffy shook her head.

Eyebrows drawing down slightly, Giles said, "I believe it would be the best option…" His voice became grave and quiet, "I don’t want you to give that blood sample."

She watched him for a long moment, feeling very small. Almost whispering, she asked, "Giles, what am I?"

"You're the slayer," he said simply, gently.   


"I don’t think I ever knew what that is," she whispered.   


"I don’t know that anyone truly does," he said. "We'll figure it out together." She nodded cautiously. "Will you allow me to arrange for the council to submit a report to the authorities?" he asked.   


"If… if you think that's best."

"I do. But we don't need to write anything down today. Take some time to rest up first. And… when you're ready to talk about anything else that happened these past two weeks, I'm always here ready to listen. As is your mother."

"Thank you," she murmured. "I think I just need to… get my own head around it first."

"Of course."

  
  


**** x  
  


The DeSoto's garage was untampered with, grimy and empty and off-putting as it was. Spike backed the car in, then dropped the roller door behind it and stretched out on the backseat to rest. God knew what condition the crypt would be in, and the middle of the day didn't feel like the time to find out. Joyce was back to normal, Giles was back to his imperious self, the four little scoobies who'd arrived at Revello bright and early were their usual pesty selves, but a locked vehicle ready to drive still felt safer than the crypt's single sewer exit if he was going to try and catch a nap. Doubtless plenty of humans had braved the muck and darkness of the winding tunnels in their hunt the other week. Doubtless he could take care of any who were still lost down there. Doubtful that he should just yet. The avalanche of events and changes since he'd last left the crypt needed to be excavated carefully, the landscape remapped, new marker posts installed. He didn't quite know where he was, much less where he wanted to be. Only that it was wherever she was.   


At sunset he woke up from his doze, stretching out his arms and yawning. He eyed the gory patch on his right bicep idly; it was only surface-deep now, a shallow tear in the skin where it had been left moving around too much to heal closed. Buffy’s backpack was still in the rear footwell, so he rummaged through it until he found the bandage tape to stick the bite closed with. Something clinked against the bottom of the bag, and he lifted it up, then grinned at the long-forgotten bottle of looted Jack Daniel's on the car floor. He added it to the backpack, then shouldered it to take back to the crypt with him.   


The bottom level of the crypt was untouched, no sign of anyone having been there. Moving up the ladder to the ground floor, he paused at a faint out-of-place scent. The front door was closed, the place silent, so he padded around slowly, untangling the trail. Lilies and rosemary, bleach and citrus spray. Joyce. Heaviest near the fridge. Opening it, he found a brown bag holding several bottles of blood.   


The cool air drifting out of the open fridge door seemed only to add to his bafflement. Joyce had brought him blood.  _ Why? _ Had Buffy asked her to, hoping to nudge him away from exercising his new-found freedom? No, she wouldn't let her mother come here if she was thinking about the possibility of him eating someone (he'd never hurt Joyce, but it wasn't the slayer's job to hear that). Joyce, then, on her own motivation. The  _ why _ remained. He'd left before things could explode last night, snarled everything that was clearer without being put into words when Giles had turned to him with the accusative questions, the  _ what happened?  _ Joyce had interceded as he slammed the door, overruling the watcher to order calmness and quiet for her daughter, and the volume hadn't risen again as he listened outside. But he'd been certain Buffy would fill them in soon enough, if not last night, then certainly this morning when the whole gang rolled in for a meeting. Was why he'd finally driven back to the garage, Buffy obviously safe at home and he probably public enemy number one,  _ prep your pitchforks, children. _ But this, now… maybe she'd not told them yet. That he'd bitten her, drunk from her. That he was out here unmuzzled. Or maybe she had, and it was poisoned. He'd got Buffy back in (mostly) one piece though, that had to count for something. There'd been glistening gratitude in her mother's eyes when she'd waved him inside last night. This felt like part of it.

He closed the fridge again, not yet near hungry in any case, and wandered over to his favourite chair to sit and ponder what the hell he should choose to do when he was.  _ Choose. _ It was a strange concept. New. There'd been killing and eating, because that was what they did. There'd been blood in little butcher's bags, because that was what he could obtain. There'd never been choice. It would require much deliberation. And the bottle of jack.


	14. Through the storm, we reach the shore

** \+ **

It was getting late, the sun inching ever nearer to the horizon. The hazy horizon, yellow and dusty; mom had said it was from the still-burning fires out there, from the fires all week, for almost three weeks, the buildings and vehicles and bodies, all burning and burnt and gone. Willy's was no more, apparently, and three stores beside it. The gas station at the south exit to town. Several warehouses down by the docks. A block of houses. She hadn't seen these things, nor the army tents on campus, nor the neat rows of new graves along the back of Shady Hill Cemetery. It was enough to hear about them.

Soon it would be dark. Soon was the time she should be heading out on patrol. But there was nothing to patrol for, and she wasn't allowed out. She could only sit at her bedroom window and ponder things.

Mom had taken blood to Spike’s (she had said this too). Spike hadn't been home. Or he had hidden; possible, if he thought she'd told her mother only certain parts of the whole sordid tale (she hadn't told her any of it).

_ Where are you? _ She needed to see him. Speak to him. Apologise. Thank him. _ Taste _ him- and everything else was off the table until that one faded. She ought to warn the others, if he was out there, unchipped. But… she felt secure in thinking that he wasn't a threat to them. They belonged to her, in a way he understood. Memories from last night were vague, but not the tender touch of his hand on her foot. Not the deep growl that said he would protect her. Not the look on his face. Not the, _ Not gonna hurt you. _ He wouldn’t. And maybe… maybe he hadn't left, either.

The sun touched the horizon, and her itch to be moving grew. The TV was on downstairs; mom had suggested they watch a movie. The expected interrogation still hadn't arrived. She ought to go down there, reassure her mom over a bowl of popcorn that she was okay, would be okay.

She tried to smile casually, Joyce tried to smile casually, _ just another quiet night at home, how nice. _ There was popcorn and cocoa, both as bland and unappetising as everything else she'd eaten today, but she nibbled and sipped at them anyway. Some of the tension faded away under the blanket of other lives on the screen, over the split attention and background sound.

"I don’t want to push you to talk about it," Joyce said after a time, "but I don't want you to feel alone in this, honey. You're home now."

"I know," she said. "Thanks. I just… it feels like a strange dream I fell into."

Joyce nodded. "It's fuzzy for all of us, the time we spent… infected. Affected. Whatever they're calling it this week. You'll feel better in a few days, more yourself again."

_ More myself again. _ She wasn't certain she knew who that was anymore. In her bed that night she tried to picture the forest, the dark and damp leaves, a tree they had slept in; everything had an odd, indistinct feel to it. Everything bar one thing. _ Spike _ . His hands, smooth and cool, running firmly down her back while she was naked on her hands and knees. A rumbly murmur in her ear, _ Going to make you moan for me, slayer. Going to make you scream those pretty sounds. _The feel of his chest under her fingertips, the taste of his nipple. The eager gleam in his eye when she watched him hungrily, when she stalked him; the ragged catch in his breath when she pulled him close. Her hands slid down under the covers, and she sank her teeth into her pillow to stop herself wailing his name when she came. 

  


x  


She looked better this evening, from the glimpse he managed to catch from a distant tree. Too meek and mild, too unusually tame, certainly, but better than when they'd arrived last night. More… Buffy. Be easy to slip closer, up to the yard, see if she was smiling while she said goodnight to Joyce. Be easy for her to scent him then, too. He retreated before he could talk himself into something stupid, and prowled off to explore the empty paths in the dark, to start remapping the physical landscape at least.

There was no one out on the streets, in the yards, in the cemeteries. Humans were staying close to home, closing the blinds; cease and desist all attention to the outside world. Demons were gone. It was his town to rule. His empty streets to swagger down, his silent cemeteries to wander through (except for the area around campus, full of soldier twats as it was, but he didn't need to go over there). A week from now the slayer would be out here again, fighting to keep her territory while the second-bravest of demonkind trickled back (not the bravest, that was him, out here parading around already). He could help her, all organised like, set out with her in the evening instead of chancing across each other here and there as they had been in the before. If she'd let him. If he wanted to. He didn't have to. But maybe he did want to.

The hushed streets with their curtained homes became disquieting as the night deepened, filling him with a sense of outsiderhood he couldn't seem to sneer away as easily as usual. Lonely, they were, lonely and wounded with their blackened gaps, lost and afraid with their bolted doors. The spirit of the town lay bare along its footpaths, and it was an uncomfortable, traumatised thing. He missed the shelter of his coat, the security of long-held certainties, and slunk back to the crypt and his own glowing TV, his own white noise of canned laughter and false warmth. 

  


+  


Mom had to go out, run errands - _ maybe there'll be more stock at the supermarket today? - _ and Giles arrived before she left, notebook in hand as though he were really here to research. He'd brought his own tea, a packet of cookies.

She dove in to clear the air. "I know you're here to babysit. You don't have to pretend."

"I, ahh…" He gave it up with a look of embarrassment. "It's not that we think you need supervising. Only… some people seemed to lose their sense of rational, even once away from demons. We just don’t want you to have to struggle with any… urges… on your own.”

“It’s not that you think I need supervising, you just don’t want me to be on my own?” His embarrassment grew into more fluster, and she shook her head, grinning. “It’s fine, Giles. I’m, uh, I know I'm…" _ imagining the taste of Spike whenever I lick my lips. _ "Not over it yet." Detoxing from the delectable sensation of bourbon and vanilla cream sliding down her throat. From the taste of his saliva. From his scent on her skin. From the best sex she'd ever had… She felt her face flaming.

Giles coughed and took the tea and cookies into the kitchen.

He had his diary ready anyway, so she filtered through the events that stood out spotlit in her memory to find others, ones that she could share. She related what they'd seen on the road that first night, and the demon gunned down by the helicopter. Quietly, she told him about the captured vampire she'd staked. Quieter still, she told him that it was the only one she'd come across. "I didn't even try to look for them, Giles. I just… hid. I knew I should be doing something-"

"You were," he said sternly. "You were doing exactly what you should have been - keeping yourself alive. This was too… too unnatural for you to fight any other way. And now that the worst is over, we're going to need you here more than ever. The hellmouth won't stay empty for long, and without the more benign species about, things could get very rough for a while."

"That’s kind of what Spike said. About staying alive."

Giles pressed his lips into an uncomfortable moue. “About Spike.”

Had she twitched? She hoped not. _ Innocent-face time. _

“I presume it was him you, uh… retained the…”

_ Gulp. _ “Yes.” _ Yes, I bit Spike. _

“You did very well, restraining yourself like that. It can’t have been easy.”

_ ‘Restraining myself’. If only. _ She swallowed hard. “I… I hurt him, Giles. I didn’t mean to, it was- we were managing. Sort of. But I lost it at the end. I didn’t… god, he was freaked, and-”

“It wasn’t your fault, Buffy. And let me repeat, you controlled yourself exceptionally well under the circumstances. You both made it back alive, which is more than we might have expected.”

She sighed. “I wouldn’t have. Without him. I was so stupid, blundering about on my own in the middle of the day. And then, when I got caught… I didn’t even know he was following me. He could have run. Should have run. Instead he put himself out there, got hurt helping me escape. He’s…” _ What is he? ...What isn’t he? _ She took a hasty sip of her drink. “I need to thank him. And apologise.”

Giles nodded slowly, then picked up his cup. “That will probably go better if you wait until Thursday,” he said mildly.

Buffy covered her face with her hands and groaned, before letting out a short chuckle. “Yeah. I guess it would.” What was she going to _ do _all week? She was already antsy. Already full of things she needed to say, ask, do to- No. Thursday. When she was back to herself. 

  


She was looking over the newspaper reports on the 'outbreak' when there was a knock on the front door, sharp and business-like. She glanced at Giles as she stood; he seemed more disgruntled than worried as he put down his own reading to get up.

"That sounds like Riley," he muttered as he went to the door.

Of course. She should have remembered that demanding rap-tappy knock.

He came in all easy smiles and clean-cut uniform, starchy and perfume-smelling. Cologne, rather; she'd better not risk calling him perfumey out loud. Whatever it was called, it burnt her nose. There were _ good to see you _ 's and _ glad you've made it home _ 's, as though he hadn't left her crying in this same house three months ago. The words back then had been, _ There's a place for me in the army _ and _ You don't need me here, _ and she could still see the outlines of them on the wooden floors where he'd left them. He stomped all over them with his shiny boots, oblivious.

He'd been helping the gang, she remembered someone saying; feeding them non-classified information, making inquiries about the safety of travelling. She pasted on a smile. An insecure whisper in her ear turned it into a wider one, a beaming one, a _ look how lovely I am _ one, but she suspected her eyes were still saying, _ why wasn't I... enough? _ Giles retreated to the back porch with his book, so she put the kettle on again and considered whether to offer Riley a cookie.

He accepted the offer of coffee, and sat at the breakfast bar awkwardly. He didn't really fit there. His legs were too big.

She needed to say something. Lots of somethings. Fill this gap, be bright and upbeat. "So, um, sounds like the army's done a lot around town." _ That was a stupid thing to say.  
_

He jumped on it eagerly. "Yes, we've been busy. Lots to clean up… we'll be here for three more days, then I've got a month of downtime before I go back to my unit. I thought I might spend it at home."

"That sounds nice." She passed him his drink. The packet of cookies was out on the breakfast bar in front of him, making her feel rude. "Cookie?" she offered reluctantly, pushing it forward.

"Thanks," he said, and took one. He ate it tidily, politely, robotically. She felt that if it had been one of the serviettes sitting beside the packet he wouldn’t have noticed the difference as he ate it.

(Spike _ chomped _into cookies, devoured them, relished them, ate them purely for the pleasure of eating them and visibly savoured every nuance of them as he did so.)

She stood in front of the kitchen bench where another her might once have kneaded bread for this broad-shouldered man, washed dishes for this pleasant man, put on her lip gloss for this calm and sturdy man, and the picture dulled into shades of greyish-beige in her mind.

Riley took another sip of his coffee, then drained the rest like it was water. "Well, I'd better get going," he said, and stood up.

At the front door they paused together. A radio on his hip crackled before he pressed a button, silencing it. He looked a bit lost.

"Thank you for coming," she said, and with the words it slid into truth. It was nice of him to come, to help the gang out where he'd been able to. He didn't fit in here anymore, maybe never had, but that was okay.

"I really am glad you got back safely," he said.

"I know." She smiled. "It's good to see you, Riley. Look after yourself."

He nodded and lifted his hands tentatively, unevenly, wavering between a handshake and a hug, or maybe a salute. She gave him a hug, and felt the goodbye in it she hadn't been ready for three months ago.

"You too," he said, smiling. Then he was gone.

  


"Hello?" she asked, answering the ringing phone that night while her mother was upstairs.

"Hello, slayer," Spike purred quietly.

"Spike?" she said, thrown by his golden-syrup-on-ice-cubes voice sliding under her skin while she stood in her hallway. "Um… hello." Where there should have been words in her brain, there was only static. And images.

"Hello," he said again, and the purr was gone, replaced by something more cautious. "Thought I'd-"

"Thank you!" she cut in, seizing hold of words at last. "And I'm really sorry. I mean, I wanted to thank you. Say thank you-" She bit her lips together swiftly, before her mouth could take her further down the road to this articulacy that was not. She took a breath. "I'm sorry. For the other night. And-" Fuzz. All of her logical thoughts were fuzz. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, slayer," he said, sounding puzzled.

"I didn't…" This was all going strange. Why was he even calling her, on a telephone? He could have come over. Spoken to her at the door, so that she could at least smell him through it. "What did you want to say?"

She heard him take a quick breath, and when he spoke again his intonation had changed again, his voice crisper. "Thought I'd keep an eye out, round town. This week. Let you know if anything pops up that I can’t take care of. Since you're grounded an' all."

"Oh." Where had the _ words _ gone again? (Grounded. Ground that was soft and spongy under her knees while she rode him into it. Ground that was wonderfully rough and scritchy on her back while he did the same to her.) "Thank you," she all but whispered.

"'S nothing… You, uh, have a good night."

"Spike-" she finally managed. "Um," _ please don't eat anyone, _ "do you need anything?" ( _ Want you, need you, _ he'd purred, murmured, whispered, showed.)

“I’m fine,” he said again. “Tell Joyce thank you for me? 'Till I see her. For the food. Appreciate it.”

“I will." She moved the phone even closer, lowered her voice. "I- I haven’t told them.”

A weighty silence hung on the line.

"Could say I’m not planning anything that'd make you regret that," he said eventually. "But I reckon anything I say on the matter won't sink in so well without evidence. Rest up, pet. I'll make sure things stay safe out here."

"Thank you," she said again, but he was already hanging up.

That _ hello, slayer _stayed with her until long after she'd gone to bed, echoing behind her closed eyelids, pulling in other things said in that low rumbly voice until she was fidgeting around in frustration, willing herself to just Go. To. Sleep. and knowing she wouldn't be able to without some form of release. Finally she let the memories play out and her fingers descend to her throbbing warm places, and imagined him in the touch of them. Huddling down in her covers afterwards, in the fluttering relaxation and the privacy of space and mind, she wondered what it would be like to do this here with him, to melt her sweat-glistening body against his cool one under the blankets, to explore him slowly and gently. It couldn't hurt to imagine. It didn’t mean anything. 

  


x  


Spike stared into the fridge again, at a week's worth of butcher's blood, at plastic containers on icy shelves. Blood that was cold and dead like the rest of the crypt and everything in it; his bed, his self, his unlife. The glamour that had lifted in the woods had gone further than he could have imagined, disguising things stark and bleak in every last corner; there was contrast now, where there'd never been any before. There were memories, of heat and softness that responded to his touch, of looks of entirely altruistic concern, of caring that was shown more than spoken. Of warmth that wasn't stolen and already cooling as it touched his lips, but instead living and growing and gleaming through the night. Drinking pig's blood that sat on chilly shelves was nothing when set beside the deeper ache making its presence felt in him now. Nothing except a possible part of the key to approaching that which would ease it. What the other parts might be, he was fucked if he knew. But as soon as he could figure it out, he'd mould himself into fitting within the lines of those shapes too. He picked up a bottle of pig's blood, and sent another thankful thought to Joyce.

As to the rest. To the intangible things that had been lost from her there at the end in the forest, and to the things that had always been lacking in him. All week he looked, and pondered, and wandered the quiet paths of the town by night, visualising the shapes things might assume.

Buffy’s living room shone in the evenings, and the tree across the street was comfortable again with its whisper of the safer side of the wild. Made to lean against, to blend into.

She stared at movies with her friends in the evenings. Always sitting alone, curled into a chair. There were popcorn and chips and little pretzel crackers, and she liked to pick up a cracker and snap little pieces off of it to eat. She smiled at the screen a little, but she smiled more at her friends; they were the important part of the scene. Her upset over the possible fate of his non-existent ones had been instinctive and unquestioned; she'd seen some angle of his aching untouched corner before he'd turned to face it himself. The scoobies, then. They were key (and not just in the fact that she always gave their opinions too much sway over her). He’d known they made her strong. But they gave her more than that. If he was to love her loving-ness (and he did, god, how he did), then this feeding of it must be loved too.

One night there were no merry little sidekicks, only the watcher with a manila folder. Joyce went upstairs, Buffy and Rupes sat at the table, and he slunk through backyards to find a position he could see something from. Buffy was sad and small, hurting and ashamed. She spoke in stops and starts, nodded and shook her head, and the watcher wrote things down. There was no surprise on the watcher's face, no coy blushing on hers; it didn’t look as though she were relating their adventures rabid and ribald. What, then? The people, it must be; the ones she'd killed and then hurt for, shown guilt and shame and regret for. It was wrong, was what it was, shouldering feelings for a pair of adversarial strangers. A soul thing, a limitation of humanity thing? But Rupes presumably owned a nice shiny soul of his own, and he looked a million miles away across the table, while Buffy was utterly alone in her heaviness. No, he decided, it wasn't a soul thing. It was a Buffy thing. It was another facet of the lovingness, somehow. He didn't know what to do about it - rationalising her actions away obviously hadn't worked - but he longed to go and sit beside her and try to make her less alone.

His own needs were harder to grasp. He knew how to make her wince with the right jab. He knew how to make her moan with the right touch. He didn't know how to make her look at him and see… someone she would let herself be with. There were paper doll examples, of course. The cookie-cutter army boy with his hay-field handshake. Parker, that slimy little worm with the faux-intimacy. Angelus, bleeding _ Angel _ , with his mind games and the veritable upside-down minefield he'd laid out for anyone seeking to love what he'd sought to ruin. His lip curled up over a fang at the mere thought of modelling anything off those despicable wankers. But maybe he could be more… well, he'd had manners once, hadn’t he? Dreams of dancing (not _ real _dancing, but the spectacle kind, a turn about the parlour), a sense of proper etiquette in respectable company. Skills ultimately useless to him then, long atrophied now, and wrong in every way for the harlequin creature she was. But perhaps somehow worth recalling to match to the costume she wore in public. He would dig through them, and search for something acceptable. 

  


+  


The days of her quarantine dragged by, and while some things slowly began to feel almost normal again, others seemed to only be settling deeper into a new version of normality. In the morning, in the evening, every time she found herself in her bedroom, she would open her closet and bury her nose in his coat, swallowing shuddering, quavery breaths of the scent of him and the forest, while restraining herself from licking it. Her stomach ached with hunger for him, the muscles in her thighs clenched with longing for him, she burned for him, yearned for him, lived and breathed this starving _ wanting _ for which there was no surcease.

The scoobies visited, hung out, brought movies and newspapers for distraction and research. Slowly she caught up properly on everything she'd missed; Tara's tearful confession of her possible demon heritage, the full excitement of the raid on the Initiative compound. The horror everyone had felt at what was going on; the people they'd known in passing for years who had been suddenly revealed as not entirely human. She shared snippets of her time in turn, and the chasm between her and them began to knit over.

Angel rang with snippets of information on the movements of demon refugee groups, relaying the feeling of the atmosphere around the border. One day he reported he'd found a group from Sunnydale, loose-skins and kiptharns and pintoos, gathering together in tense allyship against a larger threat than their differences. They were keen to return home, afraid to return home, watching the news with hope and caution.

"I've been contemplating the unique opportunity we're presented with here," Giles said. "It may be time to move past our traditional hands-off approach and take a more active interest in the more innocuous demon species who call the hellmouth home. They were - and will be again - our neighbours, after all, and a more formal alliance with some of them could only be to our advantage."

After a long discussion, she asked Angel to pass on a formal invitation to the group: the slayer was back in Sunnydale, and she granted welcome to her peaceful demonic neighbours.

Faith would not go back. _ No way, no how _ , she said with an audible shudder _ . The prison guards tried to eat me, B. Fuck that shit. _ Buffy couldn’t find it in her to disagree. Wesley had flown down to join her in Mexico, to help her put a stop to the new diet she'd been heavily indulging in; they were waiting out the week in a hotel before figuring out where to go from there. _ I'm so frickin bored, _ Faith complained every time she rang, _ and food tastes like cardboard, and my slaying was on fire. _

"Did you, um, are you…" Buffy finally asked her quietly, holding the phone close and secretively.

"Did I what?" Faith asked, interest piqued, a sly curl in her voice.

Buffy sighed quickly, mentally girding her loins. "Do they make you… _ horny _? The vampires. With their tastiness."

There was silence, then Faith broke into chuckles. "No, B. That one's your kink, not mine. If I wasn't too busy stuffing my face I might have perused the human boys down here - man, you should hear the soft lilt in their accents - but I put that one on hold for the other base desire this week. Or I had, until I moved into this boring-ass box. You ever see Wes naked? He looks like he'd be pretty fit under all that stuffy."

"No. Nor have I ever wished to. Hanging up now."

Faith laughed again, warm and throaty. "Have fun in the shower, since I know you won't let anyone else help you out."

Buffy hung up.

  


* * *

Drew this chapter 8/9 piccy yesterday after a wonderful commenter on a different site requested it...

  
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	15. When my tongue won't move, you have tied it with your heartstrings

**** +  
  


On the eighth day, Buffy got out of bed and stood before the closed door of her closet, chewing her lip. The gnawing in her stomach had faded steadily all week, until the only thing she felt like this morning was… coffee. The memory of Spike’s cool, sweet blood, his moist flesh, his smooth, sleek bones under her teeth, had swung further and further away from mouthwatering and into simply disturbing.   


Moment-of-truth time. She opened the door, and sniffed cautiously towards his coat.   


The cream and golden sugar, the espresso and cinnamon, were all gone from it. For a second it seemed to have no scent at all, now that it lacked that overpowering, virus-enhanced fragrance, but when she edged her nose closer the real scents swirled around her, more elusive, but definitively there. She moved closer still, brushing her nose against the collar, the lining, across the pockets, finding different layers everywhere. There was pine and forested earth, heavy on the outside and the bottom hem. Woody tobacco around one pocket; something like paper, glue - books maybe - around the other. Splashes of dried blood in lots of places, cloying and coppery; probably plenty of it hers, but her nose could no longer tell the difference. Whisky - real whisky - sharper and more acetic than what she'd labelled as it last week. Leather, and polish of some kind.   


And underneath it all, something subtle, familiar, warming. A scent she could only label as  _ Spike.  _ She inhaled very slowly with her nose pressed to the lining, drawing it in. It didn’t smell like dessert. It did smell nice. A fond smile spread across her face without intentional thought, and she gave in to the urge to rub her cheek against the soft coolness of the coat.   


She shouldn't be doing this. She'd said the words out loud, multiple times even -  _ This isn't real. I can't love you.  _ Shouldn't want you.   


But as of today, it was real. And oh, how she did want. 

  
  


Willow and Tara visited, and proclaimed her officially virus-clear and free to get back out there. The Bronze was reopening tonight, discount drinks and two live bands; would she come with them all?   


"Or we could… rent another movie?" Willow suggested faintly. "If you don't feel up to it."

Buffy grinned. "No. No, I'll be there."

But first.   


She dithered over her wardrobe for a ridiculous amount of time, before throwing on a pair of jeans and a creamy off-white top in a huff. Around-the-house sneakers (she was  _ never _ going barefoot beyond her bedroom again) were traded for camel-coloured ankle boots, then for knee-high black ones, then back to the ankle ones.   


He hadn't rung again, and the radio silence was making her nervous. Nervous and tangled in the swirl of fractured images, the disparate snapshots of Spike leering and smirking, crooning and growling, fighting her viciously and clinging to her chew-toy arm like it was the anchor he needed to keep from drowning. Staring at her in horror in one meadow -  _ I'm in love with you  _ \- and watching her with complete conviction and calm in another -  _ I meant it. _   


She did her makeup carefully, precisely, smoothing on glossy pink lipstick, outlining her eyes lightly before changing her mind and darkening the edges to a deep powdery charcoal.   


"You look nice," Joyce said when she came downstairs, something too shrewd in her gaze.   


Was the extra-glossy lipstick too much? Maybe she should change it. She was, after all, only going to make sure he was okay, and to thank him properly. With her words. She glanced down at her fairly casual attire and decided just to get on with the going. "Thanks. I feel like I've finally got the last of the leaves out of my hair."   


Joyce smiled. "Good. I realise you're ready to celebrate your freedom and run from these four walls, but will you be back this afternoon from wherever it is you're off to?"

Buffy took a breath. "To Spike’s. I need to… to talk to him." Joyce only nodded calmly.  _ Phew _ . "What's this afternoon?"

"Oh, nothing special. I just wanted to talk to you about some things now that you're all back to normal."

Suspicious. Perhaps it was the  _ 'What were you really doing out there?' _ discussion at last; it had been obvious all week that tongues were being sharply bitten around her rabid self. Yay. Well, at least she had a chance to get some idea of where things stood with Spike before she decided what her mother should know. "Okay. I'll stretch my legs, and be back early afternoon." (Spike had stretched her legs, held her ankles up by her head while he was on top of her.) Shit, now she was blushing again. "Leaving now," she squeaked, and dashed out.

  
  


At the crypt door she stopped, full of sudden misgivings and second thoughts. It was morning. He was probably asleep, resting, not prepared for visitors. She should come back, in the evening, when the sun set. How much blood did mom buy, exactly? She should have brought him some more. The coat- she hadn't even brought his coat back. She looked down at her shoes on his doorstep (crypt-step?), toyed with her lip, and thought about leaving again.   


No. She needed to confirm he was okay, apologise, and thank him. That was the most important thing. She knocked on the door, softer than she probably should have; probably not loudly enough to wake him if he was asleep, but maybe loud enough to catch his ear if he wasn't.   


Birds twittered. The foliage by the door rustled in a breath of wind. There was no sound from inside the crypt, but a moment later she felt him, that gentle low hum at the base of her neck.   


"Spike?" she asked quietly. Could he feel her, smell her, like she could and had him? How on earth did he so smoothly rein in the impulse to taste her, bite her, drink her? "It's me… Buffy."

The door swung open, then he stood there, safely back inside it, looking at her with his head cocked in curiosity and anxious interest. "I know it is," he said, then glanced at the floor off to the side and swallowed. His hair was whiter again, cleaned of dirt and grass and dens in hollow trees; forced into hard, straight lines with gel, but escaping chaotically in places to wend itself into the curls it had revealed last week. He must have been asleep.   


"Sorry," she said quickly. "This is a bad time, isn't it? I should come back at night."

He frowned, just slightly, sceptical and confused. "Don't recall that's ever been a concern of yours."   


It was true. And there she went with the blushing again. "I'm sorry." And now she was back to the four-word vocabulary which seemed to be all she could access around him this week.   


Spike seemed to shake himself, and waved at the interior of the crypt. "Sorry. Come in."

_ Maybe the vocabulary loss is contagious.  _ "Thank you." She stepped inside and to the middle of the room, then tried to look around with polite interest; she took in nothing over the awareness of his presence behind her as he closed the door.   


Spike circled around her widely to get to the fridge alcove, watching her under his lashes. Buffy clasped her hands together in front of herself, fingers winding together anxiously, feeling suddenly very exposed. Was she making him uncomfortable? He was clearly nervous, tension in his steps; she really shouldn't have come here in the daytime, put him at a disadvantage for the first time they spoke properly since she'd attacked him. She looked down at her shoes again. _This was a stupid idea._   


"You um, you want a drink?" Spike asked, opening the fridge. "Can of coke?"   


"No thank you," she said quickly.   


He closed the fridge door again slowly, then seemed to be at a loss. Of course he was, he hadn't been expecting her, hadn't invited her here. The blush was creeping back.   


_Say what you came here to._ She looked up at him. "I really am-" she began.

"You look good-" Spike said at the same time.

They both stopped, eyes jumping away.   


"Sorry," Spike said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "You go first."

She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, about what happened. I- I just wanted to come and make sure you were okay. I didn’t mean to wake you up."

"It's fine," Spike said softly. "I'm sorry too, pet. Didn't mean to… frighten you." He nodded at her neck, distress in his eyes. He really hadn't, she knew.

An echo of his mouth on her throat ghosted over her skin, sending the tingle from the back of her neck humming down her spine. "You didn’t. I mean, I'm glad you stopped me." She pushed on. "And I need to thank you. For everything. I… I'd never have made it without you. Hell, I wouldn't even have got out of town on my own."  _ You got shot in the head for me, Spike. What am I supposed to say to that?  _ It was too massive, terrifying in its concreteness.   


"Welcome," he murmured. "Thanks for…" He bit his lip, then tilted his head and asked in a rush, "Are we still friends?"   


"If you- if you want to be."

He nodded quickly, and some of his tension settled, his relief palpable. "Good."   


Buffy escaped the awkwardly open space, taking a few steps sideways to sit on the arm of a sofa chair and fold her hands in her lap. "I should've- do you need some more blood? Mom said the butchers is still closed." She felt like she was holding her breath, crossing her fingers, making ridiculous and unvoicable wishes to the universe. Vast and momentary grand gestures in the midst of insanity were one thing, but how on earth did they translate to a constant reality?   


"Yeah…" he said. "Noticed that. Not out yet, but I'll give you some cash if you could…" His gaze steadied on her face, becoming open and honest. "It's different now, yeah? A choice I can make. And I don’t… it's been pretty comfortable, this summer. Don't want to screw up what I've got here."

The breath-holding feeling flared into breathless possibility, and she felt a smile lift her cheeks. "Good. Yes. I'll pick some up."  _ Good?  _ That was what she'd say to a dog. But what else? Maybe there weren't words for this, for the gloriously lethal predator that he was choosing to bow his head in willing entreaty for a collar.   


"You look good," he said again, more smoothly this time, a fond smile on his lips. "Glad you're, you know, feeling better."

"Cleaner," she said ruefully. "I look cleaner." Her pants were the wrong colour for in here, too light and blue. She should have worn something darker. A skirt; why hadn't she worn a skirt? Something to match Spike’s obligatory black jeans. They suited him. "So do you," she murmured.   


He smiled hesitantly, and the silence stretched again. It was all wrong, this strange closed-lip-ness and lack of innuendo-ey banter from him. She needed a cue, a hint, both an opening and some solid sign that he might do otherwise than politely turn her away if she suggested maybe she wanted more than friendship. If she maybe… wanted to hug him. Kiss his arm softly where she'd hurt it. She needed to keep apologising, because she felt she hadn't been at all clear about all of the things she regretted.   


"What we- what  _ I _ did," she began. "In the- with the-" Gulp, blush.  _ Spit it out.  _ "I shouldn't have let myself do that to you. I knew I wasn't myself out there."

His face closed over, and he looked away from her. "Don't go regretting it on my account." His eyes flicked back to her quickly, sweeping her face before dodging off again. "Didn’t do anything I didn't enjoy." Spike shifted himself, a moment of full-bodied fidgeting, then clenched his teeth together briefly. "Look, it was bloody wonderful. But I knew you weren't right. I shouldn't have… shoulda given you space. Think I made it worse for you. Don't know. It was- god." He shook his head again sharply.   


She stood up and moved closer, lured to the frenetic tension of him, drawn to soothe it somehow. "Spike, you didn’t make it worse," she murmured. "And I don't think I could have let you go." He'd been  _ hers,  _ and she could safely admit it now: she'd have torn him apart before she'd have let him get away. Almost had. "But it wasn’t okay for me to do, Spike. That’s not the sort of person I am. Not who I want to be. Using someone like that… what I said... it was wrong. And you didn’t deserve… you deserve better. So, I'm sorry."

"I'm not," he whispered. It slid through her like warm honey, full of the memory of a white-rock cave and the way his eyes had held hers.   


It would be easy, to close the couple of feet between them, to touch him the way she wanted to. He would respond; she could feel it now, see it in the movement of his chest. Scenting her. Like she wanted to scent him, taste him, replace the memories of strange false flavours with those that were real. But there was more to the memories; the aching longing in his eyes at times, the sense of familiar acceptance of her harsh words. And there was more to her wanting than touching, tasting. She needed to give more. She took a step back.   


"We're, um, I was thinking about going to the Bronze tonight- the others are going to the reopening party, tonight. Would you… probably not your thing." She looked at the ceiling, at the corner, anywhere but at him. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was all about the biting and the… other stuff. And he had nothing but scorn for her friends. Why hadn't she thought this through before she raced straight over here? "But I should patrol, too," she said quickly. "Afterwards."

He studied her intently, in that way that seemed to see right through her. "You trying to say I should come to the Bronze, slayer?" he asked quietly.   


"If you- I mean, only if you want to." Her cheeks were burning again. Where was one of those gaping holes into the hellmouth when she needed to be swallowed up? Or some kind of timestream glitch to let her start the day over? Last week she'd tackled him to the ground like a starving lioness, torn his jeans open and impaled herself on his cock with a possessive snarl. Today she couldn’t find the guts to ask him if he wanted to spend time with her tonight. To say,  _ I still want you, Spike.  _ And even more terrifyingly,  _ I want to make you smile.   
_

"Yeah," he said cautiously. "That'd be… what time?"

"Um… eight."

"I'll be there."   


"Oh." Crud, that had come out too surprised. "Good. I mean, I'll see you then." She smiled, to show that she meant it, then kept smiling, something bright and effervescent bubbling up inside of her. He was coming. Because he wanted to spend time with her. They could leave, when he arrived, find something more suited to his idea of fun. But he would be there, she was suddenly completely certain. 

  
  


**** x  
  


Buffy let herself out in a bouncing flash of gold, closing the door behind her with a softness he wouldn’t have thought her capable of. He took a long, deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to calm his jangling thoughts with it. He felt stunned blind all over again. She wanted him. The heady scent of her arousal still danced through the air she'd just left, but more than that, she'd actively  _ asked _ for his company later, and in public, no less. All while blushing and stammering like a girl overwhelmed by her first crush. He'd hoped, in the forest, to make her burn for him, lust for the things he could do with his body; he'd never really believed she'd ever be willing to let him be more than that.   


But she was right. It wasn't her way, to have intimacy without being intimate. Or to put her own needs before someone else's feelings; she would push him away and close her eyes if she thought anyone might suffer for her happiness. He needed to show her that all he wanted was to fit himself into her life, to search out her lonely corners and mould himself inside them until she smiled.   


So how the hell was he to approach tonight?

  
  


Eight pm found him on the Bronze's balcony watching the four little scoobies chatting around a coffee table below. No Buffy, but occasionally one or other of them would glance towards the door, obviously expecting her. The Bronze was more than half empty for their much-advertised reopening party; many of the usual clientele were still choosing to stay closer to home at night, others had been ordered to by their various parental figures, some had left town entirely (and some were dead). Even with the reduced crowd, it felt strange being out in a throng of bodies again. It raised his hackles, had all of his senses wire-tight and ready to react to the smallest off-note in anyone's body language. Was why he'd come up here, to the shadows and the relative peace, to where he could watch the swirl of humanity and let the assurance of his fighting ability slowly settle back into place more comfortably.

He'd confirmed the death of the chip several days ago, right after the worrying thought had struck that perhaps its lack of reaction to Buffy had less to do with the effects of a certain bullet than with her clearly other-than-human status. Had confirmed it when the demonic action he thought he'd finally found to blow some steam off with had turned out to be a human looter scavenging the remains of a demon's residence. He'd left the guy with a broken nose and some harshly spat words about the state of the bloody world when  _ this _ was what he was patrolling for. Slayer had to be going out of her mind after a week stuck at home, and she was going to be sorely disappointed when she finally got out there. Unless… she had been going to ask him along, hadn't she? Once she'd seen the quiet graveyards for herself he should be able to talk her into taking him on for a workout. Probably why she was late - taking detours through every cemetery on the way in the hopes of finding something to take the edge off.   


Tara was gazing around idly while Willow and Xander laughed over something when her eyes suddenly found him watching. Perking up quickly, she said something to the others and raised her hand to him in a shy little wave.   


_ Shit.  _ Well, maybe not shit. They were supposed to see him in here tonight, weren't they? Christ, now Willow was waving too, in that beckoning way that said  _ come here. _   


Would the slayer be pleased or pissed if she walked in to find him in the vicinity of her friends? Nothing for it now, in any case; she definitely wouldn't be happy if they told her they'd tried to call him over and been soundly rebuffed. Grimacing, he left the railing and prowled his way downstairs. 

  
  


It took him a while to figure it out, but when Xander came back from the bar with his hands full of soft drinks and held out a bottle of Heineken with an oddly apologetic,  _ here you go, White Fang,  _ and a,  _ they said it was sort-of British,  _ he finally clicked. He'd become their representative specimen, the lone embodiment of all the horrors wrought on demonkind during the Hunger. They  _ knew  _ him, however much they might dislike him, saw him as - well, not a human person like them exactly, but a thinking, feeling creature all the same, and through that an icon and example of all the unknown ones they'd been powerless to help. The seat Willow offered beside her on the couch, Tara's smile, Xander's beer; they were given for dear Mrs Terson, for the boy from the video store and that woman who had worked the cinema ticket counter, as much as they were for himself (Anya barely gave him a second glance, assessing the crowd shrewdly with a look of complete absorption as she said a vague hello, but that was nothing to do with her feelings towards him and everything to do whatever scheme she was plotting out).   


With the delivery of a second beer, Xander finally slipped back to true form slightly to ask, "Spike, I have to ask, just  _ what  _ are you wearing?"

His automatic impulse was to snark back harshly, to snarl a threat that was all defensive bluff. But when he looked up at Xander it struck him that it  _ wouldn't  _ be bluffing anymore; he could clock the boy with one solid punch that'd drop him where he stood. His lip curled into a self-satisfied smirk, and he chuckled under his breath as he sat back in his seat. "They're called clothes, pillock," he said casually.   


"Yeah but…" Xander began. "You look better in black, somehow," he concluded weakly. Spike raised his eyebrows at him in incredulously, and Xander added, "Not that it's anything to me."

By twenty past, Buffy still hadn't shown, and he was starting to wonder if she had found something to delay her after all, or had simply changed her mind on this whole thing and decided the cleanest way to get out of it was to stand him up. He was about to bolt free of this disturbing little gathering and head out to hunt her down either way, when there was a flash of her golden mane rushing through the entrance.   


She paused just inside, looking around for them, and even from across the room he couldn't miss the way her eyes jumped wider at the sight of him seated with her gang. She looked tense as she crossed the room, a tightness lurking in her body behind the bright smile she'd assumed in response to the waves of the others. Her eyes lingered on his face for a beat, and some sort of inscrutable request filled them for a moment before she blinked it away and grinned at everyone again. It wasn't him, here, that was the problem, that much was clear. Probably the  _ here _ that was setting her on edge, as it had him, the uncomfortable awareness of so many humans so close. He hoped she was reading the message back from him somehow, the  _ got your back, slayer,  _ that he was feeling to his bones.

"Hi. Sorry I'm late," she said to them all. "I…"

The tuning strum of an electric guitar forestalled any need to try and finish explaining, and heads turned briefly to appraise the band warming up on stage.

"Hey, you're here now," Xander said, smiling. "Drink?"

"Um," she said hesitantly, "water?" She sat down slowly on the seat Spike had automatically vacated for her, and after a round of further greetings conversation resumed around her.

Spike sat down on a seat beside the couch, and she leaned towards him slightly to whisper, "Sorry to make you wait."   


He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Party hasn't even started."

"And doesn't look like it's going to," she observed, scanning the patchy crowd.   


"Yeah." He tried to pull a lopsided half-frown, but suspected it came off as more of a dopey grin. Somehow he was sitting beside Buffy, in the middle of the Bronze, with her friends, and nothing was imploding. So far. She was still tense though, and the longer he watched the more obvious it became that there was something privately wrong. Any hint of a smile faded out of him. "You okay, pet?" he asked quietly.   


"Mm-hmm," she said quickly. "Fine." She accepted her drink from Xander and excused herself from moving onto the dance floor yet, telling them to get started without her. The other four made their way over there, and Buffy breathed a tiny sigh, shoulders drooping with it. "Sorry," she said again, more glumly. "I didn't want to let you down, or I wouldn't have come. I'm not really up to being fun-Buffy tonight."

He tilted his head at her. "You don't look too well- I mean, you look amazing, obviously, but-" He bit his lip and heaved a short sigh. Gently, he asked, "Do you want me to walk you home?"   


"You don't have to," she said apologetically. "We could stay. Or you could."

"Bollocks. Course I'll take you home, luv."   


She brought her eyes to his properly, and he caught the fear filling the corners of them before they softened ever so slightly. "Yeah," she said, a tiny smile of relief playing on her lips, "you will, won't you?" She stood up. "I'll just tell the others."

  
  
  
  



	16. You give it all and I want more

**** x  
  


Buffy walked beside him, hurrying quickly away from the Bronze, then slowing once the music had faded off behind them. Her gait was different in her heeled shoes, and different again for the way she was holding herself, arms protectively close and back held stiffly, completely unlike the slinking predatory grace she'd moved with through the forest. She looked cold, with her closed-ness and so much bare skin showing in that halterneck top; maybe she was. He slipped off his button-down shirt and held it out to her silently.   


She stopped walking and blinked at the sky-blue shirt, then looked up at him with a tiny questioning frown.   


He shrugged, uncomfortable now. "You looked cold."

She looked like she was going to say something, then swallowed instead and took the shirt, sliding her arms into it and letting the cuffs hang down over her hands, curling her fingers around in the fabric. "Thank you," she said softly.   


"Welcome."

"Spike-" she started suddenly, then cut herself off, looking down and swallowing again.   


He waited, watched her and trying to decipher the emotions on her face. Had wondered, earlier, if some part of her had asked him here tonight just to reaffirm how much he  _ didn't  _ fit before telling him he needed to leave after all. She didn't look like she was thinking anything like that now. He couldn't make out  _ what _ she might be thinking. But he needed to fix it somehow. Reaching out tentatively, he settled his hand on one of her forearms, stroking her with his thumb through the baggy cotton fabric. "What's wrong?"

She took a deep breath, then let it out in a quiet sigh before looking up at him. "My mom's sick."

Something far colder than his own room temperature self plummeted into his stomach. "Oh, luv," he breathed.

He couldn't have said how it happened, but then she was in his arms, stiff and small against his chest, fingers gripping him tight. There was no relaxation in it; she felt more like she was seeking something solid to brace herself against. He squeezed her to him silently, steadily, firmly enough to bruise a mortal human, and she took a couple of shaky breaths before slowly unclenching her fingers and pulling herself away again.   


"She has- she has a brain tumour," Buffy said slowly, sounding as though she was testing out the shape of the words for the first time. "They found it when… When they were trying to work out what was going on with the Hunger, they gave MRIs to some of the people who had been eating demons, and some of the ones who definitely hadn't. She and Giles volunteered to be part of the 'hadn't' group. And on mom's scan they found this… shadow. So they did some more tests, and again this week, and worked out it was a tumour and growing and they're taking it out tomorrow." Buffy sniffed hard. "She's having brain surgery tomorrow. She didn't want t- she said she didn't want me to be worrying about it while I had so much else to deal with. She only told me this afternoon." Buffy shook her head, looking away. "I don't…"   


He didn't either. Only, he'd promised to take her home, and she'd been relieved. "Come on, luv," he said quietly, lifting his hand in an awkwardly jumbled gesture that was somewhere between taking hers, ushering her along, or offering her his arm like a ponce.   


She gave him a tiny smile and started walking again. 

  
  


The house on Revello was dark and silent when they got there, and their voices dropped to whispers automatically as she took out her key and unlocked the front door.   


"She's staying at the hospital tonight," Buffy said woodenly, walking in. "I can go back, tomorrow morning."   


Spike closed the door with a soft click and followed her through to the kitchen, a strange throb of nervousness and longing pulsing through the air.   


Buffy opened the fridge, then stared into it blankly. "Do you… um… are you hungry or something?" There was an air of some vague, lost concept of being the hostess of the situation hovering about her, of trying to fill the sudden gap in the house. "We have cookies?"

"No…" He wanted to… "Here, sit down," he told her, gesturing to one of the seats at the breakfast bar. He grabbed the kettle and filled it from the tap, then picked up a pair of mugs and the box of teabags from the windowsill. Rupert's, had to be.   


Buffy sat down slowly, and watched in silence as he found sugar and milk and the bag of cookies, poured water and watched the tea steep.   


He gave her mug a final stir before setting it in front of her and stepping back.

"You made me tea," she said faintly, wrapping both of her hands around the mug and peering down at it.

He shrugged. "Yeah. It's what you do, isn't it?" Was it? He wanted to hug her again, hold her close and tight, but he didn't know where they stood and didn't want to spook her away from any comfort he could provide.   


"I guess," Buffy said, equally unsure, and took a careful sip. She licked her top lip afterwards, and he caught a glimpse of her flat-edged little white teeth, deceptively blunt-looking.   


He took a sip from his own cup, glad to have something to do with his hands, somewhere to drop his eyes to. Perhaps that was what it was for.   


Buffy fingered one cuff of his shirt with the opposite hand, then looked up, scanning him from head to toe slowly and intently. He felt like shuffling his feet and shoving his hands into his pockets, and jutted his chin out slightly in defiance. Slowly, Buffy stood up, slipped off his shirt, and rounded the breakfast bar to hand it to him, the barest hint of an amused smile on her face. He took the shirt back blindly, tightening his jaw further in anticipation of what she might be going to say.

"Look at us," she murmured, still with the tiny attempt at a smile. "We look like Danny and Sandy at the end of Grease."

He glanced over her again, at her black pleather pants, the slinky, deep red halter top, the dark sooty eyeliner and glistening red lipstick. And down at himself, the khakis and the pale grey flecked shirt, the greyish sky-blue cotton fabric in his hand. It was true. He chuckled softly through his nose. Buffy grinned down at the floor with him, then the moment's respite faded back into her hurting reality.   


"Good movie, that," he said, to fill the pulsing silence, to give her an opening to discuss something frivolous. It wasn't, it was a bleeding awful movie, but he was evil, he could lie.

"We have it. If you want to watch it?" she asked uncertainly, her eyebrows tilting in dubious hopefulness.   


"Yeah. Why not," he said, smiling. It was a brilliant film.   


"Okay." She picked up her tea and moved to the living room, and he brought the bag of cookies and his own.   


Buffy left the rest of the house's lights off, letting the soft glow of the TV bathe the room instead. She loaded the video, then pulled a thick blanket out from the side of the couch and pushed part of it towards his lap, sitting herself down on the opposite end of the couch. He spread it over his lap properly, all puffy and warm and deeply scented with the layers of fragrance that made up this home. Then he opened an arm for her in invitation, fighting to keep a casual look on his face. She wriggled over, into his side carefully, watching him sidelong and shyly with her big eyes, and he smiled nervously to encourage her.   


The people on screen sang and danced and went about their lives, and the blanket grew warmer still as Buffy’s heat spread through it like a comforting embrace. She relaxed into him slowly, never fully putting down the gritty tension that had underscored her every breath all evening, but steadying it into a sense of patient waiting. Waiting for the morning, waiting for the operation, waiting for everything to be over and things secure again. He rubbed circles on her arm gently, falling into a soothingly rhythmic pattern, and everything that had been pinching and sniping at him earlier melted away, seeming utterly unimportant now.

The movie finished, and Buffy stared at the blank screen for half a minute before getting up and putting a different one on, something French and subtitled. Then she slid back into his side, and they stared at the screen in comfortable silence again. 

  
  


**** +  
  


Buffy blinked slowly, and when she opened her eyes again, the first hint of light from the approaching sunrise was beginning to diffuse into the blue-black night of the room. Her head lay on Spike’s arm that had been around her shoulders, her back to the back of the couch; she must have fallen asleep long enough for him to edge her around to lying down. His other arm was around her waist, heavy and secure while he slept. He was beautiful asleep, his features softened and gentled, all dusky eyelashes and smooth pale curves. It made her feel protective of him, like she needed to shield his resting self somehow, bundle him up warmer in the blanket, even while the low hum on the back of her neck ensured she was in constant awareness of the strength and power lurking inside him.

She'd brought her wolf inside, and he'd made her a cup of tea. It should feel strange, wrong, incorrect; it felt only perfectly fitting. Maybe this month was her own grim fairy tale, with all of the gruesomeness and magical realism of the old ones; the sort where the wolf could make tea and sleep by the fire without losing his fangs.

_ Her _ wolf. She  _ knew  _ him, she'd realised last night, things that had been foggy merging together into sudden crystal clarity like someone had turned the focus on a lens. She knew what he was made of, what lay beneath his skin; she had tested him, locked teeth and claws with him, scoured the surface of him and tasted the things that drove his blood. And in their reflection, she had recognised new parts of herself. So last night she had handed herself over to him, opened something to him, because under their messy costumes he was comfort, and safety, and solidity.

She leaned her face closer to him carefully, breathing in through her nose to scent him, his arm, his hair, his face.  _ Spike-scent;  _ she still couldn't liken it to anything else. His hand tightened on her waist slightly, then the edges of his lips lifted and he blinked his eyes open. They focused on hers, ocean blue-grey like the twilit sky, lifting at the outer corners as his smile grew.

"Good morning," he whispered.   


"Good morning," she answered softly.   


"Were you sniffing me?" he asked in the same soft tone, idly curious.   


"No," she said with a tiny scoff. He watched her in soft, knowing silence until she added, "Maybe. But not like that- not like before."

He lifted his eyebrows briefly in agreeance, then took a deep breath himself, lashes fluttering in pleasure.   


"How do you stand it?" she asked. "The not eating of me?" She'd failed so miserably.   


"It's nothing. You're not dinner, and I don’t want to hurt you." The hand on her waist slid up her back to settle on her shoulder blades, and he gave a look of mild offence. "And I'm no crazed zombie, slayer."

"I didn't want to hurt you either," she said. He looked like he was going to interrupt, so she threw her admission out before he could, "But I didn't want to give you up more."

"Maybe you don't have to." He said it in a low, silky murmur of enticement, but lying this close to him she couldn’t miss the way his eyes betrayed his nervousness.   


"It won't be easy," she whispered.   


He grinned, eyes sparkling with sudden zeal at her warning that was also an agreement. "Cause it's been a bloody cakewalk in the park so far," he said, chuckling.   


"In the National Park," she added, catching his grin.   


"Yes. Mind-numbingly simple."

"Virtually boring. Like these clothes." She wrinkled up her nose and fingered his pale grey shirt. It felt like the tip of the iceberg of how hard he would  _ try _ , the raw passion of his love in the forest striving tenaciously and indefatigably in any direction possible _ . _ She didn't know whether she was more afraid of what it could mean for him, or for herself - because a deep part of her was whispering that she could rise to the challenge in it. "I've got your better shirt upstairs. And your coat."

A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face before he brushed it aside. "Held hostage?"

"Kind of," she admitted. She could give it back now. If he prowled away into the shadows with it he would always return to the lure of her fireside.

"Buffy," he said, quiet and serious now, ducking his chin to hunt out her eyes better, "if you think  _ anything  _ could make it too hard for me to love you, you don't know who you're dealing with."

"I do know," she whispered. "Spike." Seamlessly chimeric and obstinately defying all categorisation; somehow both unbelievably fierce and impossibly tender. The man who would offer her his shirt when she’d stripped him of his coat. She pulled a wry smile, flicking her eyes skyward. "Of course, I don't really know what I am anymore."

He smiled. "Well that's alright, because I do. You're Buffy."

Yeah. Maybe that was what she was.   


The light from the windows was growing quickly now, warming to yellower tones as the sun met the horizon and the last of the twilight slipped away, taking her comfortable habitat with it. Daylight meant facing what had been held at bay until now, meant stepping up to the harsh realities. It must be around seven o'clock; two hours until she could see her mom. Four hours until the operation. Unknown hours until  _ after _ . Unknowns were not okay, not graspable, not combatable.   


(There had been concrete words yesterday, sentences that fell like hammer blows she had no way of blocking. _It's nothing to do with the virus. Just a regular human condition. People go through it - live through it - every day. It's only a small operation._ _Brain surgery. Tumour._ As the phrases shrank they only landed harder_._)

Spike’s fingers began tracing circles on her back, little tight ones that matched the anxious sadness now in his eyes. He'd always seemed to know her secrets without being told, to be able to peer unerringly into her sensitive places and see the shape of the insecurities hiding there. "Your mum's a strong woman, slayer," he said softly.   


He’d asked nothing last night, offered no false reassurances or flippant platitudes. Only listened for ways to help, and somehow felt the touch of the strained fear that had gripped her with her mother’s words. Then he'd let it be, as a thing to be endured and given room. Soon she would have to put a smile over it, spout the unfelt reassurances herself to the others and her mother, but for another minute she could lie here and acknowledge it as it was.

"They said it was lucky they found it now," she told him quietly. "It would have kept growing, unseen, until it put so much pressure on her brain that she started having symptoms from it, and been much harder to remove." She hated it, whatever it was, this invisible evil, this cluster of cells. Skulking there out of sight in her mother's head, malignant and malevolent, growing in secret like the virus had until the weekend that everything had exploded so horrifically.   


Spike pressed his lips to the top of her head and hugged her closer against him, his shy caution forgotten in his hunger to protect her. She hugged him back, feeling like something was saturating into her from him; some of his steely determination, maybe. Then she uncurled herself from the blanket, and got up to face the day.

  
  


She had wondered - had asked - whether Giles had known all week, been part of the senior adult conspiracy to Keep Extra Stress From Buffy. Or if they  _ all _ had, the whole gang biting their tongues on words of sympathy and checking on Joyce behind her back. But no, her mother had said, she hadn't thought it necessary to worry anyone ahead of time. She'd been to her extra scans and appointments quietly, filled the pantry, packed her bag for her stay in hospital; done everything on her own and matter-of-factly. Her mother, Buffy suddenly saw with new understanding, was both very much alone, and stronger than she'd ever imagined. Joyce said the reassuring words, the  _ everything's going to be just fine,  _ because that was her role. She stamped down her fears and held her head confidently because she was Buffy’s mother, and it did not matter if her daughter had superpowers and a mystical destiny, Buffy was her daughter first and always and  _ her _ sacred duty was to protect her child from the traumas of human life. Mom  _ would _ be okay. Because mom said so, and she had a type of power all her own.   


At eight o'clock Buffy rang Giles, some echo of her mother’s chin-lifted stoicism letting her discuss the situation calmly and factually. Joyce, she discovered, had already rung him after she had left last night, forestalling for her to explain from the beginning. Giles offered to make the rest of the calls now, to come and drive her to the hospital; Buffy bit her lip for a minute, stuck on what was expected of her here.  _ Yes _ , she said eventually, please tell the others. And,  _ No _ , she didn't need a ride, she would walk over there, she had the energy, that was easy, it was something she could do, by herself.   


She had walked back last night as the sky turned orange, walked back with things buzzing like angry bees, squashing a lid on the hive and telling herself she could put on the clothes she'd picked out earlier and hold the swarm at bay long enough to make an appearance, to take Spike on patrol and show him that somehow, somewhere, they could have something. Then she'd seen him, and the bees had swept forward, clamouring at her, and he'd heard them - and taken her outside to set them free.

  
  


The stilted awkwardness reappeared when it came to leaving, Spike looking like Spike again in his soft black t-shirt and sweeping coat, she wearing a strange floral shirt she'd found in the closet that somehow seemed like the sort of thing people were supposed to wear to a hospital. And her new hiking boots, that she'd put on in the store yesterday and only taken off long enough to get changed.   


"See you there, then?" he asked shortly, when they'd both done the tongue-tied thing again.   


"Can you get there?" she asked, eyeing the blue-yellow morning. "You could stay here, if you wanted."

His brows lifted slightly in surprise, then he shook his head. "I'll be there, slayer." He hesitated for a split-second, then cupped the back of her head quickly and kissed her on the forehead. "I'll be there," he said again, then he pulled his coat over his head, nodded to her, and bolted for the sewers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next (final?) update might be a couple of days away, sorry :)


	17. Sleight of hand and twist of fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of bits of lines from Into the Woods; thanks, Marti Noxon.  
And thank you for your comments, everyone. So encouraging 💙

**** x  
  


Sunnydale Memorial was a labyrinth of near-identical corridors, all laced with the myriad odours of illness and decay, astringent antiseptics and the cloying scents of hothouse flowers. Fetid breath and yellow bile snuck past in a nurse's coat; mucous-thickened throats and concentrated urine in a bundle of washing. The decor was all soft whites, but it couldn't hide the lingering aromas of approaching death. He should have stopped to find something to bring Joyce, a talisman of rosemary sprigs and citrus zest to ward off the reaper which surely stalked these halls. Had wanted to be sure to beat Buffy here though, make sure she had someone to guard the door from the second it closed. And damn lucky he had, because he was fucked if he could guess whether they'd have put Joyce in the neurology ward or the oncology one. He lingered at the information sign, weighing the options and wondering if he should ask the receptionist, in case Buffy had decided to run here too and was already upstairs.

Then she was there, her battlements up and visible in her squared shoulders and sharp eyes. He dropped in beside her with a short nod and got a smile in return, and she led him towards neurology.   


There was a waiting room - or more of an area, an alcove, a bleeding display cage for human fear - close to the door they were approaching that had Joyce's name on it.   


"That’s me," he said quietly, cocking a thumb towards the waiting-place. "Go be with her."

Buffy smiled at him again, a silent thank you and agreement.   


Ten minutes later, Giles arrived with the wiccas in tow and a bunch of flowers in his hand. He looked first surprised, then suspicious, then just distracted and puzzled to find Spike sitting at the edge of the waiting room. Spike indicated which one of the off-white doors along the hall held the slayer and her mom, and Giles brushed aside the distraction of him and took the girls in there.

The watcher reappeared first, a calmly authoritative and reassuring smile plastered on his face until the door clicked shut behind him and it fell away into a tired, worried frown. He took a seat in the back corner of the room, both silently distancing himself from Spike and (unnecessarily) adding strength to his claim on the entire space as Buffy’s property for the indefinite future.   


"Dare I ask what you're doing here?" he asked quietly.   


Spike took a slow breath in and out before he answered, "Sort of thing you want a full team to stand against, ain't it? Strongest fighters on hand… She asked me."

Giles narrowed his eyes further, but only said, "I suppose so."

Muted by the door, voices bubbled and skipped faintly in Joyce's room, everyone determinedly upbeat and cheery. Spike swivelled around to face Giles and set his elbows on his knees as he leant towards him. "She is gonna be alright, ain't she? Joyce." She was so young, so healthy and spirited; they had all that science and medical advancement they'd been raving about all century. She was all the blood family the slayer had, far as he'd seen, far as was worth the title; the universe couldn't take that from her, surely.   


Giles pursed his lips and turned his face aside, avoiding Spike’s direct gaze. "The doctors all seem very confident of that, from what Joyce has told me."

In other words, he didn't know either.  _ Useless wanker. _ Spike turned back to watching the door she waited behind, powerlessness and the unfairness of it all clawing at his insides. It was a time when people made appeals to higher powers, but if they weren't moved by Buffy’s innocent need then there was nothing he could offer that would do anything beyond angering them. Maybe the watcher had some bargainable righteousness built up; git had better be bloody praying if he knew what was good for him.

  
  


**** +  
  


Buffy spent ninety minutes with her mother, then a nurse came with a wheelchair and told them it was time for Joyce Summers to go to the surgery department. Her daughter could wait in the waiting room, but it would be hours before they had anything to tell her, better to go for a walk, pop home, visit the hospital café perhaps?   


_ But it's not eleven o'clock yet!  _ she wanted to say.  _ We were supposed to have more time!  _ Yesterday morning everything had been becoming right again; now it was all rushing away out of her control. How did they  _ know  _ this wasn't something from the virus, something mystical, that there weren't spells that could fix it- Willow was here, in the waiting room, Tara too- they could stop this from happening today and investigate-

"Buffy," her mom said sternly. Then more gently, "Buffy. They'll take very good care of me. I love you, baby."

She didn't want to say it back. She wanted to hold onto it, pause it, quote any number of movies with all their versions of  _ tell me when I see you again _ and have the waiting words as insurance. But she couldn’t, not for this. She hugged her mother back, carefully, lightly,  _ mom's not slayer-strong _ -ly _ , _ when what she really wanted was to hold on fiercely and never let go. Then she said the words, and the nurse took mom away.

Everyone was here. Scattered about uneasily in their pairs or alone, wearing the expressions usually reserved for pre-apocalypse waits; resolute and staunch, ready to stand up to face whatever lay ahead, and determinedly hopeful. The ache in her heart redoubled, a twisting pang of love for them all tightening her throat. She chose a seat midway down the room; inside the loose circle her friends made, and where she could see the swing doors the nurse had taken mom through. Then she waited.

And waited.

Xander and Anya went on a mission to the hospital café, returning with five cups of coffee and a bag of doughnuts. Buffy held her coffee between her two hands, the slow cooling of it her new timepiece. 

And waited. 

Giles picked up a women's magazine, and perused it with a look of vaguely horrified perplexity. 

And waited. 

Willow and Tara smiled, smiled twitchily fast each time they looked her way, and talked together quietly in between. 

And waited. 

There was a small memorial display on the reception counter, flowers and tokens, what looked like enlarged ID photos of a young man in scrubs, a woman in a nurse's uniform, another in a paramedic's shirt; _In memory of_ _Benjamin Wilkinson, Kristen Sander, Theona Ginter, and the many other victims of The Hunger. _She wondered distantly what had happened here during it, whether they'd been eating or eaten, here or on the streets. 

And waited. 

Spike jumped back and forth between periods of absolute inhuman stillness - a marble statue,  _ The Waiting Room, _ frozen forever in time like her life was - and periods where he seemed charged with an almost mindless jittery energy gnashing its teeth to  _ do  _ something here. But always, he listened. An ear tilted towards the doors she watched, the silence of his tongue (and frequently, breath) a visible proof of his constant attention to things beyond her audible range, of listening for the first sound of anything that would tell them anything. 

And waited. 

Buffy studied Spike’s head while he watched the doors; his clean white hair where the blood had been, the tiny notch in the pattern of it where a fingertip-sized patch underneath was shorter than the fur on a mouse. 

And waited. 

  
  


And then the doctor came.   


Spike tensed, as he had for numerous false alarms as staff members came and went from the doors down the hall, only this time the tensing was followed by rising fluidly to his feet as her mother’s doctor came through the doors. Buffy stood in his wake, lifted with it; the others stirred and clambered up stiffly behind her. Spike's coiled dangerousness filled the air between him and the doctor, prickling hairs on the back of her neck - or maybe that was her own. She stepped forward, past him, into the hall, into her position before them all, and waited for the doctor to speak.   


"Okay, your mom's in recovery," he began.   


_ Which means?  _ It was all a jumble of meaningless syllables. Her body couldn't decide whether it should be panting or holding its breath.   


"It was possible to visualize the tumour completely, which means I was able to get all of it. So, barring complications in recovery…"

_ Visualise  _ it _ . _ Like meditating.  _ All of it _ , the sinister lurking form of it.

"I think your mother's going to be fine."

_ I think your mother's going to be fine. _ The clenched fist which had taken up residence in her chest twenty-four hours ago cracked open, seized muscles letting go at last.  _ Thank you. Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou. _

He was still talking, "...we're still going to have to watch ... carefully … back here ... follow-up testing-"   


Watch. They would watch, watchdog, she had a qualified Watcher to do watching, even; she grinned, almost burst into cackling laughs-   


"but, uh, overall I'd consider the procedure a complete success.

"Thank you!" she half-shouted, to the doctor and her friends and God and the universe and whatever higher powers were in charge of the slayer's mother, and then she hugged the doctor, the marvellous,  _ wonderful _ doctor. He immediately let out a pained squeak of a sound, and she jumped back, releasing him and tripping over her tongue in apology, hoping she hadn't broken Mr amazing-doctor-man, but too jubilant to stop grinning. Spike was at her left elbow, so she grabbed him instead, and he did not squeak, only crushed her just as hard in return while she squeezed all the feeling through herself properly. Around his shoulder she watched most of the others hug each other too, Giles shaking hands and clapping shoulders. When the zinging rush inside her had been suitably squeezed she let go of Spike and grabbed Giles for the hug he needed to get out but was too stuffy to do himself. She felt him tense quickly, expecting pain, but kept herself in check easily now, everything swishing free in the hug-satiation.   


When everyone had calmed down, the newly-cautious doctor told her that her mother would be moved back to the ward in an hour or two, and she would be able to see her -  _ briefly and alone - _ then. Buffy thanked him again, and he let his own smile show as he left.

"You guys may as well go home," she told the others as they all stood about in a jumble. "I'll be fine to walk back afterwards."   


Spike vanished. Everyone else went through a round of double-checking and offers to stay, more hugs, more exclamations of thankfulness, then said goodbye and left.   


Buffy walked slowly back to her seat and sat down heavily, the last few minutes still echoing.  _ Complete success.  _ Closing her eyes, she sent another thank you out silently to anyone who might be listening.   


When she opened them again, Spike was standing in the hallway, smiling at her timorously. "You uh, want me to shove off?" he asked, gazing at the floor down the hall and looking as though he didn't want to do anything of the sort. God, it was gratifying to be reminded that he was as lost in how to act towards her now as she was towards him.   


"No," she said. "Unless you wanted to? I don't actually require a babysitter this week, and I'm sure it's not your favourite place to spend the afternoon- except maybe it is, there's that whole vampire cafeteria downstairs, and the big burny-ball-of-death outside, although you got here just fine somehow- and I think I'll be shutting up now." She glanced down at her lap, fighting an urge to smile at herself.

Spike threw himself into the chair beside her with a snicker. "Burny-ball-of-death, aye? Better stay put then."

"Okay." She let the smile out. Why not? Her mom was going to be okay. Spike hadn't run for the hills, not when she'd been miserable company last night, not when he could have had a headstart last week, not even when she'd tried to eat him. "You tried to eat me first," she blurted out.

He chuckled, easy and warm. "That I did. Quite a few times, as I recall."   


"Does that mean I've got a few free attempts left?" What was  _ wrong  _ with her mouth-brain filter today? Maybe it had been dissolved at the influence of his blood.

"You can eat me anytime you like, slayer," he said in what started as a smooth purr but rang false by the end.   


She pulled an ick-face.   


"Yeah, I need new lines after this fiasco," he sighed. "How about, you can  _ nibble  _ me anywhere you like, as long as I get to keep all my fingers and toes?" He wiggled his fingers in the air. "And some other bits."

"I think I can manage that," she said shyly.   


He glanced sideways at her quickly, hope and eagerness brightening his face. She thought he was going to say something, and was already starting to flush in response, but he only licked his lips and swallowed before dropping his eyes away again. Maybe he'd drained her mouth-brain filter and kept it for himself.   


"I'd have had you, too," he said after a minute. "That first fight." He grinned fondly and rubbed a hand over the back of his head. "But… then I met Joyce."

The impulse to argue otherwise rose, but she let it slide away again for today and only grinned back. Her mom was strong. 

  
  


She didn't seem strong, when they finally brought her back to her room on a wheely bed. A big white bandage covered part of her head, and her face was pale and tired below it. She looked older, suddenly, the lines on her face deepened, the skin under her eyes looser; when had she started getting those wrinkles? A disconcerting sense of unfamiliarity gripped Buffy’s tongue and made her hands twitchy as she followed her into her room.

Then Joyce smiled. "Oh, my baby," she said in a slightly raspy voice, and lifted her arms weakly.

Buffy hugged her very carefully, conscious of her mother’s frailty, conscious of her own strength. "I'll look after you," she murmured. "I'll look after everything." She was strong. She could.   


"Hush," Joyce whispered, stroking her hair. "I'll be up in no time. Just don't have any parties while I'm away."   


"No parties," Buffy whispered. "Check."

They released each other slowly, and Buffy sat on the chair beside the bed, fingers gripping her knees. "How are you feeling?" she asked, feeling like it was a stupid question but unable to think of anything else to say.

"Exhausted," Joyce admitted. "And… a little floaty."

"That'll be the drugs," Buffy said, attempting to smile.

"Well, they're probably very helpful," Joyce said slowly. She lifted a hand towards her head, then thought better of it and lowered it again. "I've got a bald patch, haven't I?"

Buffy shrugged, unknowing. "There's a bandage. It's white." She mentally slapped herself. "You look great, mom." She did, she was here, and okay, or getting okay, and hadn’t become a stranger after all. " _ Really  _ great." This time, the smile worked.

"I think you need your eyes checked," Joyce said faintly.   


"Spike got shot in the head," she said in a rush, "and he didn't wake up for three days…" Where had she been going with this? Get there, quickly. "Which is longer."

"Oh?" her mom said, frowning.   


"In the forest. For me…"  _ Shit. Not now _ . "Nevermind. I meant, you'll feel better soon."  _ I hope. I'll help.   
_

The nurse reappeared before she could flail around any further, ordering her home until the morning.  _ Let her get some rest now.  _ Buffy kissed her mom's cheek, assured her everything was under control, then reluctantly let herself be led out.

  
  


It was still afternoon, hours until it would be dark. Hours since it had been dark. "How  _ did  _ you get here?" she asked Spike.   


"Sewer access in the basement," he told her. "You uh, want me to retrace my route to yours?"   


_ Yes _ was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it there. She needed to take a step back from this edge, take a few deep breaths while clinging to the railing. "No, I'd better go and… I didn’t even have a shower this morning."

"Didn’t have one for three weeks recently, and you still smelt divine," he said, smirking.   


Eww. But so had he. She rolled her eyes. "Not according to everyone else I didn't. Can you get to the crypt safely that way? And I need to pick up the blood order, so I'll bring it over. Later. When it's dark. You probably want to sleep." Maybe  _ she _ needed to sleep, before she lost any scrap of respect-worthiness she'd managed to retain through her inanity today.   


"Course I can. And you don't have to do that today. Probably want to debrief with- the scoobies or something, don't you? Not that I've ever got a problem with your lovely self coming by at any time and I'll be home…" He shook his head, smiling self-deprecatingly.

"See you at dusk?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows.   


"Yeah," he said gratefully. "See you then, slayer."

She almost walked off in the opposite direction to the one he was taking, but no, there were only elevators at one end of this floor. Instead she wandered over to read the memorial display while she waited for him to get clear, because god only knew what would happen if they had to stand in an elevator together right now. It certainly wouldn't be the almost sensible and calm parting they'd just pulled off. Why was talking with him so  _ hard _ now?   


The intern, Benjamin, looked so young and hopeful in his photo. He had kind eyes, a nice smile. He'd probably done something heroic, gone out to help the people getting themselves hurt by the demons they were trying to eat. Or that was what she was going to choose to believe. 


	18. And you give yourself away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry everyone, real life got a bit hectic and frazzled my brain too much to make with the words.  
But here, without further delay, is the final chapter (bar the epilogue to come). Unbetaed, so blame me for any errors ;)

**** +  
  


At the supermarket's butchery counter she discovered that it wasn't just her mother and the scoobies - virtually the whole town had suddenly decided to adopt a vegetarian diet. The glass-fronted meat display was covered over with sheets of newsprint;  _ It disturbs the shoppers,  _ the butcher told her apologetically,  _ and no one's interested, in any case.  _ He wrapped her blood order in brown paper with extra studiousness, folding the corners precisely and placing the sticker just so, and cautiously tried to tempt her with a recitation of the other products they had available. She turned them all down politely, but asked him to repeat the blood order in a week's time; he nodded eagerly and slipped in a free tray of bacon.   


"They'll forget," she told him as she accepted her parcel. "People always do. Or maybe… there are vegetarian sausages, aren't there?"

"Yep," he said wearily. "I've been trying some recipes out, but the whole sausage concept seems to be putting people off. Perhaps I should be making them different shapes?"

"Maybe," she said, shrugging. Sausages weren't really shaped like any dismembered demon she'd ever seen, but who knew how people's associations worked. Thinking on it, they were kind of intestine-ey. "Hang in there," she told him kindly.

"Thank you," he said with a warm smile. "I'll have that next order ready and waiting, don't you worry, miss."

  
  


At home she placed the whole package in the fridge to stay cold until evening, then reconsidered and opened it up. Spike might come over again; she should keep a packet or two here so he would have something more than tea to drink if he did.   


_ He could always drink you…  _ a little voice whispered sinfully. She ran her finger over the left side of her neck, across the smoothly healed skin where he'd bitten her at the end. Where for days beforehand he'd nuzzled her and nibbled at her without breaking her skin, even though he could have got away with so much more. She'd fought the nuzzling then; she wondered now what it would be like to respond to it. To melt into it, to return it. For it to be safe to draw out the delicious build-up and bask in the afterglow harmoniously.

Spike  _ would  _ come over again, not might. Would be here now, if she'd let him. He was so strangely vulnerable, for all of that strength and brazen swagger; afraid of overstepping and being pushed away, but desperate to inch closer all the same. She could hurt him so easily, and he knew it ( _ had _ hurt him, biting him away from words when he'd said the wrong ones in the forest, the too-real ones). He knew it, and still he threw himself towards the risk. It frightened her, this power over him, the memory of him lowering himself to his knees expecting nothing in return. It was too much, his love was too much, it had all been too much this afternoon, and she'd needed to flee it and regroup. Needed to look at herself in the mirror and question whether the person she saw there was really strong enough to guard this. Whether she could be. Because he wouldn't leave, however painful it got. He'd been hers from the moment he turned to face her and said,  _ I'm in love with you  _ with the look of a man condemned. And she didn't want him cringing on his knees.   


Her eyes were nervous in the silver glass, full of the other half of her fear -  _ he _ could hurt  _ her _ . She cared. She'd already taken part of him inside her, and now he could hurt her there, where she couldn’t defend against it. Every moment she spent with him she was trickling more of that power over to him in return. If she continued this, his cool hands would wrap their way around her chest inside her ribcage, ready to crush and claw until she couldn’t breathe for the pain. Unless he didn't. Unless… he only held her there. Unless the coolness of his soft fingers only steadied the heat in her, soothed it and balanced it, the way they had for timeless seconds deep in the forest.   


It would be worth the risk. And she was nothing if not brave. She straightened her shoulders in the mirror, affecting a confidence she didn't fully feel. She had to break free of this, she  _ would  _ break free of this, this strung-nerve version of herself she'd been all week, the girl locked in quarantine and the girl swallowed by fear for her sick mother and the girl who was too afraid to risk herself. There'd been more than horror in the forest; there'd been a type of freedom, and a strength that she hadn't known she had. And now that she had some distance on the horror, she wanted those back.  _ Needed _ them. Buffy leaned closer to the glass, peering at the mosaic of colour in her irises, searching them and wondering what Spike had seen there when he'd lunged for her that first time. When she'd kissed him back. It was still in there, somewhere.

After showering, she dressed carefully again; patrol pants, a warm shirt, everyday clothes to make this everyday. And a delicate satin and lace bra, matching underwear; confidence-imbuing and making her body as layered as she felt her psyche was this month. If she could fit pieces together comfortably from her wardrobe, perhaps they'd settle together on the inside too. Because she was not just her mother’s daughter and her watcher's slayer and her friends'… friend, she was also the creature who had padded through the pine needles with an electric fixation in her eyes and teeth that could be fangs. It might have taken an external influence to set that creature free, but it was her choice now to welcome it.

  
  


When she knocked on his door this time her hand was firm and sure, her back straight. Spike opened it immediately, like he'd been waiting, and she held out the bag of blood and asked, "Patrol?"

"Yes," he said smoothly, deliciously, a sparkle coming to life in his eyes. He took the bag from her hands with a smile, and she waited on the step as he put it away. Then he stepped outside, and they set off through the cemetery together. Step one, down.

  
  


There was nothing to hunt. The streets were quiet and empty, the cemeteries were resting peacefully. The Espresso Pump had closed before dusk. Willy was yet to even decide where he was reopening, and didn't consider Spike enough customers to rush things for.   


"He underestimates my drinking skills," Spike said with an offended snort.

"Or he accurately estimates your income-providing ones," she said, risking a cheeky grin.   


He grinned back. "There is that. Bloke had insurance though; he'll be back in action before too much longer."

"Meanwhile…" She waved a hand out across the trim lawn of Pine Grove, "Dead. And not in the fun way." They'd been walking for a couple of hours, tracing concentric circles from the centre of town outwards. The walking was good,  _ great _ , the movement enticing their tongues into its rhythm until conversation flowed easily. Her muscles had warmed and loosened properly at last, and it was easy to smile sideways at Spike with the sound of their footfalls filling the gaps.   


"You could always hunt me?" Spike offered, one brow lifted cockily and his smirk at odds with the anxious hope in his eyes. "Could both do with a decent fight."

_ Hunt me. _ Her ever-traitorous pulse surged with excitement at the words, but with them came the feel of him wriggling beneath her, slippery with his blood and scented with his bolt of fear when he realised that this time, she wasn't going to let him go. "I don't want to fight you," she mumbled, frowning.

"Sparing, slayer, bit of friendly exercise is all. No pointy bits of wood on your end, no fangs on mine. Sure you do." He was watching her more cautiously now, steeled for disappointment behind his confident words. He wasn't afraid of being overpowered by her; he was afraid of being rejected and held away.

She licked her lips nervously. It would never be a relaxed sparring session, a toe in the water. She could feel her heart beating louder already, anticipation breathing tongues of flame up from the embers. If she fed it, it would only grow, faster and hotter than her artificial hunger had.  _ Am I ready for this? _   


A gust of wind whooshed up, the changeable mid-autumn weather veering towards a blustery cold front. Leaves swirled and danced their way across the grass, then the gust hit the woods behind the cemetery with a swoosh of shifting branches. She'd forgotten there was forest here. On a smaller scale, perhaps, but forest all the same. She turned to watch it rustle, the tops of the tallest trees being buffeted from side to side by a force stronger than themselves, bending and creaking before sweeping back into place.   


"Come and catch me, slayer," Spike purred, sliding past her and walking backwards a few steps towards the trees. Less certain than he'd sounded, his eyes watched her face intently, ready to move the moment she made her decision; to spring into leading a chase, or to forget all about it and return to her side.   


If she declined, he would brush off the idea and keep walking with her, hands at his sides carefully and that tentatively happy warmth in his eyes whenever she caught them on her. That knowledge gave her the safety railing she needed to step away from it.

"Okay," she whispered.   


Spike lifted his eyebrows at her, his uncertainty clear now; worrying again that maybe he was approaching her the wrong way. This polite-society version of himself was such a polar opposite to the Spike she'd wrestled and snarled with, only deepening her need to tempt out his surer instincts.   


"Yeah?" he asked.   


"Yes," she said, louder. Smiling in what she hoped was a confidently reassuring way, she added, "If you think you're up for it."

His lips lifted slowly into an eager smirk. "I'm  _ always  _ up for it," he murmured. Then he turned and melted into the trees, all liquid stealth and supple grace.

She gave him a few moments, letting the anticipation build and spread through her body, senses sharpening and blood thrumming bolder through her veins. Then she went after him.

The faint tingle at the base of her skull said he was here, well ahead somewhere but not quite out of range. She gave half her concentration to it as she moved, reaching out with that oddly natural sense more intently than she ever had in her life. If she was going to match him here, in the dark, with her reduced sense of smell, then it was her best hope of knowing where he was. The rest of her attention went to the moving, to placing her feet quietly, to weaving around branches and bushes without disturbing them or having her own movement limited.   


She was getting closer. The tingle grew, but not as fast as it should; he was leading her deeper. She picked up her pace, running now, closing on him steadily, the zingy sensation of his presence blossoming out along her nerves. Sticks and leaves crunched and snapped up ahead, swift footfalls, careless sound. Her own feet were louder than she would have liked; at a run, sound would give away her exact position long before scent caught up. She hovered on the decision for a beat, then threw herself to a stop and tugged at the laces on her boots. Seconds later she was setting down her naked feet, flexing her toes as she felt out the rough leaf litter and cool, damp earth beneath them.   


Spike's noise had lessened; he'd gained some distance again while she'd been paused, but must have slowed right down when he realised it. She began to run again, light-footed now, swift and sure, zeroing in on him while he was hopefully still confused. When her senses began screaming their warning of  _ vampire!  _ she slowed again, tiptoeing closer as she peered into the darkness of the scrub and tried to pinpoint exactly where ahead he was.  _ There. Behind the tree. _ A certainty in the buzz on her spine and the tingle in her fingertips; a knowledge that would become self-doubtful under rational scrutiny, but remain secure as long as she let it remain in the realm of feeling. Her prey was behind that tree.   


He was absolutely silent, rightfully suspicious of the quiet behind him and able to more than match it. No matter. She was too close now for him to get away. Her body surged into motion, into speed, into the low sprint and leap that would secure him before he could move three feet. She heard his coat swish as he whirled to face her onrush, his boots stomp against the ground as he adjusted his stance, but too slow, much too slow to dodge her.

She leapt as she rounded the tree, trusting him to be where he was in her mind's eye, and slammed into his waist in a full tackle before he could adjust and lower the arms he'd raised in defensive anticipation. Her momentum smashed him from his feet, to his butt on the ground a couple of steps back, and she grabbed for his wrists to pin him there, managing to snag one and lock it up above his head. His other hand dodged free to grip her by her hip, pulling her closer as she tightened her thighs around him. For a split-second she quavered there - perhaps she shouldn’t have been quite so aggressive, all things considered - but his face showed only the same heated excitement she was feeling, and a bark of wild, exultant laughter burst from his lips. Then his free hand was sliding up to her shoulder blades to pull her mouth down to meet his. She let go of her hesitation and threw herself into kissing him, kissing him with all the desire of the past nine days, feeling like she was diving into him, trying to pour herself inside him, could never be close enough to him as he ground his hips up against her straddling thighs and pulled her even closer, a laugh tumbling on her tongue too.   


Spike rolled them over, leveraging her with the hand that was still holding his wrist, and she wrapped her legs more firmly around him, feet hooking together behind his legs, inside his coat. It hung down around her, covering her from the outside, covering them together, and she let go of his arm to slide both hands up under his shirt, needing to have them on his skin, have all of his skin against hers. He made a growling sound, a hungry, approving sound, and his hand sought out the bottom of her shirt in turn, pushing it up as his palm swept up her ribs to her breast. The tips of his fingers found one of her nipples through the satin of her bra, rubbing circles around and over it that made her arch into his palm. She locked her legs tighter around him, then twisted her arms up and tugged her shirt up further, breaking the kiss long enough to yank it off over her head. His mouth dove for her other nipple, tongue flicking over it through the fabric, lips soft and firm around it, sending frissons of excitement racing across her skin. Her hand found its way onto his head, fingers weaving through his hair seemingly of their own volition, half stroking and half encouraging him closer, if closer were possible. He licked and nuzzled his way up her chest, pressing firm kisses and blunt-edged little bites to her collarbone, to the hollow of her throat, to the underside of her jaw. Her hands had found his shirt again, flashes of his skin beneath it, and she had to struggle to keep from tearing it cleanly away. Spike's mouth hovered close to her ear, his breath fast and shuddery with the way she was grinding her pelvis against him, with the way he was grinding himself back against her, the hard length of him right there behind two layers of rough fabric and if he kept this up she wouldn’t even need to remove them, she would come apart right here like this.   


When he spoke his voice was low and rough, husky and jagged. "Sure you want to do this?" he asked. The hand that had been gliding down from her breast had paused just under her ribs, fingers splayed across her skin and trembling slightly with tense restraint.   


"Yes," she practically moaned at him. Then, thoughts clearing slightly at the shaking in his fingers, at the forced hesitation, she said, "No-"   


He stiffened, jerking his head up to see her face; she tightened the muscles in her legs in case he tried to pull away further before she could finish.   


"It's not this, here," she said quickly, holding his guarded eyes firmly with her own, willing him to hear her. "You. I want  _ you,  _ Spike. Right now. Every- anywhere." His eyes widened, bare before her suddenly, all of his peculiar vulnerability laid open to her in their midnight-sky depths. Her hands slid up to his back, needing to hold him, shelter him, despite him being fully-clothed on top of her as her naked back lay in the dirt and leaves. She should feel exposed herself, but she had power here, inside of her, fierceness and fire under her skin that paid no heed to the rough ground and cool air. "Unless you-" She'd been going to say,  _ don't want to do this here, _ but his mouth was on hers before she could, words wiped away with the sweep of his tongue, rebutted with the rumble in his chest.

Spike shook his coat off as he kissed her, tossing it out on the ground beside them. Then he lifted her, one hand splayed across her spine to hold her to him as he sat up on his knees. Legs hooked tight around his waist, hands firm on his back, she hugged onto him while he brushed a few bits of forest from her skin and hair and flicked open the catch on her bra. Then he lowered her onto his coat, hands gentle and tender as he placed her down softly and swept her hair out from under her to fan across the leather. She relaxed her legs, let her hands soften to stroke lightly across him, the urgency of earlier settling into a deep, throbbing surety, ceding leadership to him. He pulled away far enough to take his shirt off, then ran a hand down her leg before circling his fingers around her ankle and unwinding it from him. Her pants were next, his fingers sliding the zip down slowly, sweeping over the skin under her waistband, stroking everywhere as he nudged them down and off her legs.   


A tiny frisson of shyness ran through her, before fading away at the look on his face, at the trembling adoration under his dark lashes. Then his mouth was on her inner thigh, kissing its way up to the satin and lace of her panties, and everything but the feeling of him melted away,  _ she  _ melted away, she was a liquid creature being given form only by the path of his tongue and the manipulations of his artist's hands. Spike's lips trailed up her body, nudging and nibbling across her stomach, at her nipples, around the curve of her breasts and up to her neck again. He'd undone his own pants at some point, leaving them loose around his hips, raspy denim and the stiff leather of his belt rubbing against her naked thighs while the smooth skin of his cock brushed against her in an almost unbearable tease, spurring her muscles to pull him closer, hands and feet tugging at him while needy little whimpers made their homes under her breath.   


" _ Shh, _ " he whispered into her cheek. "Let me watch you." He braced an elbow on the ground near her head, and his fingers stroked across her forehead and through her hair, coaxing her to relax back down.   


Melting into his palms again, the one caressing her head and the one dancing across the silky fabric of her panties, she leashed her burning need to have him inside her right now and nodded against his lips in answer, in surrender. His dancing hand slid up, dipping under the edge of the fabric, fingers sweeping down inside them to slide against her throbbing wet places. She gasped out a shuddery breath, spreading her legs wider and tightening her fingers on his shoulder, flooded with a fresh rush of need for him to keep touching her, to touch everywhere. His fingers circled over her quickly, then thrust inside, making her gasp again, muscles clenching around him. Spike's breath skipped and caught with hers, lips parting to shudder his cool breath against the side of her mouth. His eyes were dark on hers, intent and hungry; she needed to give him something, everything, fill that hunger in him, but spread out in complete surrender beneath him as she was she didn't know what was left to offer. Then her tongue unglued at last, and she found it in the words tumbling from her lips; the whimpery moans, the husky breaths of his name, all those words she'd told herself to delete from her brain, the _please_ and _yes_ and _fuck, god, Spike._ They were the _best _words. His fingers thrust inside her, harder, faster, the heel of his hand slamming against her clit with each stroke, and she clung to him, swallowed in his eyes, in his hands, in the steely resistance of his wrist as she thrust back against him, the velvet slide of his rigid cock on her thigh, precum lacing her skin to mix with her sweat. Her words fell apart into unspellable things as she came, howling apart into a wail of release as her vision whited out. His fingers kept thrusting, fluttering with the pulsing squeeze of her muscles, slowing finally when they began to settle into aftershocks. Then he was shifting, his fingers sliding away to leave her momentarily bereft before his cock was nudging at her instead and she was grabbing at his ass to pull him against her, into her. The waves surged back up as he drove into her, rocketing straight towards a higher peak, the panted words of encouragement and adoration on his tongue splintering as hers had until they were both making little whimpering snarls as she convulsed around him and he stiffened and jerked inside her. 

  
  


Spike lay on top of her, finally close enough in his complete boneless relaxation (and still inside of her). One of her hands had found his hair again, her index finger toying idly with a curling lock of it. Buffy’s skin was cooling quickly in the autumn night air, the light glaze of sweat on it threatening to turn chilly, but she ignored the cold in favour of staying right where she was. A moment later he must have felt it too, and lifted his head from her shoulder to see her face.   


"You're getting cold, pet. Better get dressed," he said with quiet reluctance. His gaze dipped to her lips, then back to her eyes; the hesitancy was creeping back.   


Buffy lifted her head to press her lips to his, a chaste and soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. Blood thumped once in her groin as the movement shifted his cock inside her deliciously, and she felt her cheeks trying to redden. "Yes," she said, before she could change her mind. "We should go."

Spike nodded once, almost apologetically, and lifted himself off and out of her carefully, letting her panties slide back into place. Cold air fell on her where he'd been, and she sat up quickly, pulling her knees close to her chest. Spike pulled his jeans up from around his ankles, then glanced around and retrieved her clothing, handing it to her carefully before picking up his shirt. His eyes were ducking away from hers frequently again, flashes of uncertainty interrupting his clear longing to keep watching her and smiling.   


Buffy threw her clothes on, licking her suddenly dry lips and swallowing down her own hesitancy. "Spike?" she asked quietly once she was dressed.

His eyes froze on hers with that deer in the headlights look. "Yeah?" he whispered.   


"Come home with me?" She hadn't meant to sound so timid.

His eyebrows quirked into a frown. "Was hardly going to waltz off and leave you here."

"No-" She shook her head and took a steadying breath. "Come home to my bed with me? Stay over?"   


"Okay," he whispered, then clenched his jaw tight shut and dropped his eyes firmly to the ground, kicking himself. Were he capable of blushing, she was sure he would be right now.   


"Okay," she said, smothering a grin at both of them and grabbing his hand. 

  
  


There was mud on her new sheets again, probably mostly from her. Oh well. The floral pattern would camouflage any transferred grass stains. Spike looked endearingly sweet all snuggled down in pastel blankets, his mop of white hair scraggling its way into tousled curls in every direction on her lavender and mint pillowcase, a hint of a satisfied smile - or maybe a smirk - lingering on his face as he drifted off beside her.   


Her bedroom looked like a bomb had hit it; everything that had been on the dressing table was now scattered across the floor, the fluffy rug from the floor was on the dressing table (with several handfuls of fluff torn from it), and the bedside table was across the room, one corner sticking several inches through the drywall, where she'd kicked it with her ankle while trying to find something to brace her foot against for more leverage. And it was wood - the bedside table, not her foot - she should probably get rid of it really, or at least keep it over there, make it a wall-side table from now on, for safety's sake; it was lucky her bed frame was metal, because she'd already twisted one of the bars of it, put a hand-sized dent in it when she grabbed onto it when Spike was behind her- Yeah, she needed more suitable furniture in general. A nice clear space on the floor, perhaps.   


She could worry about that in the morning though, because right now her legs felt like they'd turned to jelly and her arms were saying that they'd bluntly refuse to move if she attempted to lift them. Which wasn't a problem, because she didn't want to. One of her hands was between both of Spike’s, being held close to his cheek on the pillow. The other lay over his waist, leaden and lax where she'd plonked it when they flopped down here to relax into the afterglow again. Her eyelids were heavy, blinking slowly, but she didn't want to close them yet; wanted to watch him a while longer, imprint this image of him in her mind, that sweet yet somehow incredibly sensual smile, the shape of his curls against the patterns on the fabric, the feel of his fingers wrapped around hers. The way he seemed to fit here, blissfully content in her bed, like he'd finally found the place he was meant to be.   


He must be asleep now; his chest was moving with very light, even breaths, and there was a sense of tidal calmness to the vibration of him on her slayer senses. Her own chest was full, trying to brim over with emotions that she needed to remain nameless; fragile, blind things to be nestled into the soft light and shelter of blankets and sleep.   


"I was wrong," she whispered as quietly as she could, watching him carefully for any reaction, needing to spill some of this fullness of feeling but not ready to expose it. When he didn't move, she continued, "I could love you, Spike." Her blood tingled, zingy with her tiny burst of daring, and she buried her face down into his chest quickly, closing her eyes to go to sleep. 

  
  


**** x  
  


_ I could love you, Spike.  _ He didn't dare move a muscle, willing his body to stay still and calm, listening to her heart rate slow again from its sudden leap and feeling her body slowly relax into slumber. She couldn't see his face from down there though, hiding hers as she was, so he didn’t even try to stop a smile from claiming his own.   


Outside the first birds were beginning to twitter softly in the dark, warming up for their pre-dawn chorus of beautifully sung territorial warnings. He almost wanted to join them, climb out on the roof and broadcast his own ebullient announcement;  _ Buffy loves me. _ But she wasn't ready to sing it, and besides, nothing on earth could prompt him to move from right where he was right now. He snuggled in closer to her instead, and kept smiling. 

  
  
  



	19. Epilogue

**** +  
  


Uncle Bob's Magic Cabinet went on the market, Mr Bogarty proclaiming he was damn well done with the hellmouth and all of its craziness. After several days of extra-ruminative-Giles, he put an offer to the man and purchased the business, with an eye to it becoming both the new scooby gang base of operations, and a public, centrally-located face to their increasing networking efforts.   


Local Sunnydale residents were eager to support a new(ly refurbished) business when so many holes still remained from the devastation of the Hunger; by halfway through the first day, an overwhelmed Giles had seized Anya with a rare outburst of desperation and dragged her behind the counter, where she instantly made herself at home. 

  
  


The secret of Spike’s chipless status lasted until Tara's birthday, when her brother Donny put his hands on her aggressively and Spike lost his rag and punched him in the face. After a moment's confusion - the rest of the gang leaping to the conclusion that Donny was the one who was a demon of some kind, and drawing weapons on him accordingly - Buffy moved to stand in front of Spike and announced in her staunchest voice, "It’s not him. The chip hasn't worked since the forest. It's not a problem."

Xander spluttered a, "But-" before cutting himself off as his cheeks paled, all the blood rapidly draining from his face; remembering all the bullish weight-throwing he'd been doing for the past two months, most likely.

Spike stood tense behind her, breathing fast and shallow, eyes jumping from person to person warily while each of them waited to see how everyone else would respond. It was Donny who broke the moment, staggering back to his feet to come looming towards her and Spike in a fury; all of Spike’s taut energy exploded towards him in a vamp-faced roar of cornered ferocity that sent the three Maclay interlopers bolting from the store, and made everyone but Buffy startle sharply.   


The Magic Box's door creaked shut behind them, and Tara slumped against Willow in relief, rubbing at her arm where it had been grabbed. Then she looked up to meet Spike’s eyes, studying him for an instant before saying quietly, "Th-thank you, Spike."   


Willow watched Buffy with worried eyes; Xander was still silent and looking somewhat horrified. Anya's attention bounced from person to person like she was idly assessing a sports game.   


Giles was livid, cold, dark anger closing in on his face. "I would in fact call that a rather dreadful problem," he told Buffy in a low, level voice. "The sort of problem that I should have been informed about immediately."   


_ Gulp.  _ A sense of guilty shame pressed down onto her, but she tightened her jaw mutinously and refused to yield to it. "It's not a problem," she said again. In tight, clipped tones she continued, "That chip was immoral, Giles. He couldn't even defend himself. And he doesn't need it anymore."

"I'm not gonna bloody eat you lot," Spike snapped, stepping to the side to face them without her shielding presence; proving that 'he' was standing right here and could defend himself. "Or any of them!" He waved at the front wall of the shop, indicating the town beyond it. "Haven't done these two months, have I? Could have." He jabbed a finger towards Xander, "Could have torn your bleeding tongue out a thousand times over, wanker. But I didn't, did I? Haven't touched a hair on your greasy little head. Things are different now, ain't they? Gotta look after you hopeless sods. Can see I have been, can't you?" His voice angled towards a despairing plea by the end, his angry front beginning to falter at the suspicion and mistrust on most of their faces. Suddenly it was them on one side and him on the other again; the non-human, suspect and shady. And her in the middle, a foot in each camp, whether they acknowledged it or not. Spike scoffed darkly, a scornful, bitter snort of air to cover his hurt, and gave up his protest with a shake of his head.   


"Different  _ how?" _ Giles asked. "We haven’t allowed you to be a part of the resettlement discussions in order for you to position yourself for some sort of coup."

She could  _ feel  _ Spike’s anger flare, flash-firing at the insult to his intentions, all the hotter for having to bite his tongue on what he really wanted to say. Things were about to get loud.

"Tell them," she said, her voice firm and commanding.   


Spike turned his head to her quickly, surprised and unsure. They'd been careful to keep their relationship to themselves, letting everyone assume they'd simply become better friends and allies (well,  _ become _ friends and allies might be more accurate), feeling their way through what it meant for them in private while the others slowly adjusted to Spike being a welcome part of the group. But the time for that was over. She ignored his questioning look and watched the others rigidly, bracing herself.   


He turned back to them. "Because I love her," he said, proud challenge in his voice.   


"You're a vampire!" Xander shouted.

"Did notice that, yeah," Spike growled out.

"Vampires can't just-"

" _ Spike _ can," she said, a hint of unintended threat slipping into her voice. She lifted her chin. "And I love him." The silence solidified into a heavy cloud, five pairs of eyes zooming in on her- make that six, with Spike blinking at her in stunned silence. "And we're a couple, and have been for a while, and he makes me happy, and strong, and would never try to hurt you guys - anymore - and looks out for my mom, and isn't going anywhere, and stopped me from being eaten," ...and now she was getting carried away into a jumble.  _ Slow down. _ "And he - is - a - good - man," she finished in a clear, ringing voice, glaring at them all defiantly.   


No one knew what to say, but some of the eyes left her; Xander's shooting to Willow’s in half-beseeching accusation, Giles's to the hand reaching for his glasses, Tara's back to Spike. Willow shook her head hurriedly at Xander, her expression doing its best to proclaim her innocence.   


It struck her, suddenly, that she was waiting, breath held and fear tight in her throat, for their  _ permission _ . For these five people to weigh up her jabbered argument, their prejudices, and their prior knowledge of Spike, and come to a decision on whether or not she could date him. Not one of them had raised an objection to him patrolling with her nightly, or helping to research, or being her backup (and occasionally, translator) when meeting with returning demonic residents. They trusted her judgment there; she expected them to. She'd never asked their permission as the slayer.

Reaching over, she grabbed Spike’s hand and crushed it in her own. "We're late for patrol. I'll see you all tomorrow," she said in a tone that brooked no argument, and pulled him from the store. The others could debate it in circles all night if they wanted; she'd said her piece.   


Spike trailed along after her in a daze for a block, then jerked her up against him by their joined hands and kissed the breath out of her.   


"Sorry," she said afterwards, grimacing apologetically, "I should have said that to you first."

He started chuckling, eyebrows tilting in that way that meant he was about to call her a daft bint or a dozy chit or whatever series of non-words was on top of his list of affectionate insults today, and she frowned at him,  _ glared  _ at him, because she was trying to apologise and correct this but he was too busy laughing. It didn’t work. He eyed her supposed-to-be-stern glare and threw back his head to laugh with joyful abandon, then grabbed her around the waist picked her up over his shoulder to run down the road while she shrieked and giggled.

  
  


Winter settled in, the shorter days and longer nights lending themselves to more casual time together in the early evenings after her classes. The scoobies got over it. Willow’s hurt feelings were soothed by Buffy’s explanation that she'd needed to get her own head around it first, and a subtle and guiltily given reminder that she wasn't the only one who'd kept an unconventional relationship sheltered from potential criticism during its infancy. Tara and Anya were respectively gently accepting and flatly unconcerned.   


From Giles there was a quiet discussion that roiled with suppressed tension on both sides, his stiff tones lecturing briefly of duty and potential blindness, biases to her judgement and One Must Not Keep Secrets From One's Watcher. "It's not my place to comment on your private life," he finished, "only to remind you not to allow it to supersede your responsibilities."   


She nodded, accepting these intersections of their respective roles. "It won't," she promised.   


He left it at that, but seemed to watch her with a new type of speculative scrutiny over the following weeks, a look of philosophical pondering on his face whenever she and Spike were together; she could see her question rotating slowly in his mind;  _ what is she, really?   
_

Xander struggled. Struggled with Spike’s inescapable commonalities to a vampire who was best to remain nameless; struggled more, she eventually figured out, with the fact that, soulless vampirism aside, Spike was still far below what Xander would ever consider good enough for her, stepping into the stereotype of father-with-shotgun and 'no-punk-trash-sniffing-near-my- friend'. Except the shotgun was loaded with muttered complaints.  _ Unapologetically an asshole. A scabby freeloader… We all know he's just using you as a convenient bedwarmer until his real girlfriend finally remembers where she left him.  _ That one snapped whatever patience Spike had somehow retained, and only Anya's intercession saved Xander from the black eyes he probably deserved before Spike swept from the Magic Box in a seething cloud of frustration.

In the echo of his departure Buffy glared back at Xander's outraged face, folding her arms over herself. "Do I not do enough?" she asked tiredly. "Can't you just let me have this?" She was sick of defending her right to live her own life in the tiny corner of it that she could, sick of conceited opinions and impossible standards. Ignoring whatever response Xander was formulating, she trudged out the door. 

  
  
  


Then came the night Spike tore into Giles's flat, ashen-faced and trembling, a wild tempest of terror and aggression with her held in his arms at its centre, slowly seeping blood through his shirt.   


"I'm fine," she added to the immediate uproar of voices, though she doubted any of them heard her; why did it sound like  _ everyone _ was here? Oh yeah, meeting. They'd been going to come over anyway, after checking out the rumours of a few vamps moving in around Shady Hill.   


"No, you're bloody not," Spike snapped, a harder tremble shuddering through him like a living entity beneath his skin. " _ Fuck. _ Watcher-" Her head spun momentarily as Spike whirled to lie her down on the couch, burning, tugging sensations shooting out from the stake-sized hole in her stomach. "There," Spike barked, drawing back enough to point at it. "Stake. Reckons she doesn't need a hospital- This place was closer any case- I don't fucking know…" His hands skittered about, darting around the idea of picking her up again and forcibly taking her to the hospital, his fingers flexing and clenching into fists.

"It's just a hole," she said, trying to sound authoritative and not at all like she'd maybe just-a-bit-for-a-second-there actually  _ fainted _ in the middle of the cemetery like some fragile little flower of a maiden.   


Giles untied the long-sleeved shirt standing in for a pressure bandage about her waist, and hissed in through his teeth at the sight of the wound beneath it. "Anywhere else?" he asked in his most brisk all-business voice.

"Nope." She shook her head, holding the rest of herself still for him to inspect. "Spit-kebab Buffy, not acupuncture-gone-wrong Buffy-" she broke off to mouth a silent  _ ow! _ as Giles prodded at her stomach. That only earnt her more poking and prodding while he watched her closely under his furrowed brows. "Verdict?" she asked when the poking at her sore places seemed to be finished.

"How are you feeling?" he asked in return. "Any pressure in your abdomen, dizziness-"

"Cold, thirst, confusion? No." That part of the recommended slayer reading she  _ had _ studied; signs of impending disablement via injury, and first aid for civilian victims. "Dizziness when it happened," she added quickly before Spike could butt in. "It's worn off now." Retreated to leave the embarrassment of the whole thing bluntly staring her in the face.

Giles nodded, then thanked Willow for the first aid kit she was hovering with. "You'll have to take it easy for a few days, but I think it will heal fine on its own. What happened?"

Yeah. There was that whole embarrassment thing again. "I, um, got staked."  _ How? _ One moment she'd been thrilling in the motion of a fight, a proper old-fashioned little Sunnydale skirmish the likes of which had been so rare lately; the next her opponent had somehow blocked her stake arm, spun it around, and driven four inches of pointy wood back into her abdomen. It had been so unexpected and sudden that she'd only been able to gasp in shock, then stupidly tear the stake back out to stare at it in a daze while Spike took the vampire down in two parts and less seconds.   


Giles lifted his eyebrows high, requesting further explanation.   


"I don't know. I guess I just… slipped up somehow. Misjudged… I'm not sure."

"What were you fighting?" Giles asked as he tapped a wad of gauze firmly into place.

"Vampire. Lame, bog-standard vampire." She sighed at herself.   


"He won't be a problem again," Spike growled darkly, the hint of regret in his tone saying that he probably wished he had enacted more suffering in the killing.

Giles nodded once, acknowledging, and helped her sit up so he could finish wrapping all her gory bits in clean white bandages before fetching her an old jumper to put on over her blood-slicked shirt.   


A careful deep breath in and out to test how things felt, then she caught Spike’s eyes to smile reassuringly.  _ Fine, see? _ Or she would be, with a bit more sitting down now and a few days rest. He smiled back with obvious relief, but a grim tightness still hung about him, instinct-driven reactivity needing more time to accept the threat was gone and stand down. His left hand was fidgeting in the pocket of his coat; she nodded her eyes at it and then at the door, and he gave her a thankful little smile before pulling out his smokes and slipping outside. 

  
  


**** x  
  


He'd barely sat down and lit his fag when Harris came nosing out into Giles's courtyard after him, head swinging this way and that before locating him by the red-embered end in his fingers. The boy slumped his way over, what looked like sullen recalcitrance in his posture, and Spike’s tenuously constrained anger of the last week tore its frayed leash again, jabbing him to his feet with knives on his tongue. As soon as he was standing though it began to fizzle and fade, the anxieties of an evening exposing it as the defensive front it was. Pointless fucking argument. There'd be no talking sense into Xander's thick skull tonight, and it wasn't him he was angry with, in any case.   


"Go on then," he growled. "Or you want me to say it for you? Here. 'You were right all along, Harris. Not good enough to protect her.' There you go. Now be a good boy and fuck off."

Xander took a step back; an actual literal step away and to the side. Then reversed the meaning of it by pointing his finger accusatively back at Spike. "That's not- You're an asshole, you know that? Abrasive.  _ Pestiferous _ ."   


Spike arched a brow at him. "Big words you got there. Done?"

"No." Xander shook his head sharply. "See, track record, much? I heard how you hit her with those barbs about Parker and Angel that day on the quad. Are you really gonna be surprised I'm not comfortable with you  _ dating _ her? She might be ready to forgive and forget, but I've still got a scar here somewhere from the last time your obsession with a woman hit the rocks. You're not exactly Mr Gentle-and-caring." Xander raised a palm in a  _ hold that _ gesture and huffed a short, hot breath, reining himself in. "Of course, I never thought you’d be so squeamish at a bit of blood, either," he said more calmly.

"I'm not bloody squeamish," he growled, while telling himself not to get pulled into this.

Xander snorted. "You looked like you were about to pass out earlier. Either you're squeamish…" He looked hard at Spike suddenly, and lowered his voice, "Or you really do love her."

_ Well _ . He looked up at Xander and exhaled a slow stream of smoke to give himself pause. "Yeah," he said afterwards, stomping on the  _ what of it?  _ that was ready to follow.

Xander shrugged. "I love her too, man. Platonically- I love her platonically," he added hastily, before becoming serious again. "You'd better not hurt her, that's all." His voice was entreating rather than threatening, acquiescence clear in it.   


He didn't know why it should matter to him; it  _ shouldn't _ , was the truth of it. Five out of the six most important people to Buffy was a ruling vote in his favour already. And yet. He'd tossed this soft-bodied little pup aside in fight after fight without sparing him a moment's thought, and every time, Xander dove in again as soon as he could regain his feet, never surrendering to the common sense that said he was a weak and witless boy throwing himself into someone else's gunfight without so much as a knife. He'd only got so up in arms this week because he knew exactly how helpless he was against an unmuzzled Spike. He was all heart, and, despite himself, Spike felt an inane urge to duck his head and swear fealty to this acceptance from it.   


"I won't," he said quietly, with none of the usual scorn he kept up for Xander. Quiet held for a few beats, then his eyes slid from Xander's face over to Giles's door. "Don't know what happened tonight," he murmured. "Was just- dunno. A slip. Dumb luck." He clenched his jaw. Too bloody fast was what it was, a split-second turn from everyday fun and games to a sound of shocked pain that had hit his stomach like he'd been the one impaled there;  _ squeamish _ might not be so far off the mark for the sensation that was still slowly fading. He bit back the stupid  _ sorry  _ that was on his tongue and took another drag on his smoke, sitting down again.   


Xander looked back at the flat too. "Wasn't dumb luck you were there, though… I'm glad you were."

_ Generous of you.  _ Exhale, watch the smoke swirl through the night air,  _ don't make something of it.  _ He nodded dismissively, and silence fell.

"Can vampires even faint?" Xander asked speculatively.   


"She did," Spike muttered. "Scared the shit out of me."

"Yeah, it really sucks watching the people you care about get hurt by vampires," Xander said dryly. "Beat up. Kidnapped. Shot at on careers day. Have their birthday party ruined by a demonic jack-in-the-box."

Spike grimaced to himself at the litany, feeling something that definitely wouldn't be called guilt but was disquieting all the same. "Careers day?" he asked afterwards, fixing his attention on the least-loaded example.   


"Order of Taraka. Some cop-demon with a handgun. Put a hole in Oz before Buffy took her outside."

_Bugger._ On him too then. He sighed, tapping the ash off his cigarette and watching it sift down to the concrete between his boots. "Wanted her out of the way while I healed Dru," he said. "Knew she was too good to risk having around during it. Didn't realise she was _that_ good; no one's supposed to survive the Tarakans. Using them was overkill, Dalton said." He half chuckled, shaking his head. Damn, but she was brilliant, she was.   


Xander just watched, a look of faint disgust on his face.   


Spike shuffled his foot, toeing a bit of moss on the ground. "Look. Can't do owt about any of that now, can I? Sure if I hang about with you lot for a few more weeks I'll catch up enough to even the scales on it all; you're always getting yourselves into one fix or another."

"Really not how things work," Xander said in that same dry tone.

"I know," he muttered sullenly. Did, too; these stupid sods didn't count up debts owed or consider things obligated in return. Had that whole 'doing it because it was the right thing to do' mantra. "Still gonna happen. It's what you do moving forward what matters, isn't it?"

Xander tilted his head slightly, hinting agreement. "Cordy and I took out one of the Tarakans," he said a bit later. "They weren't so tough."

"Yeah?" Spike asked, turning to him in mild surprise.   


"Yep. Disguising bug-dude. Lured him under a door into a puddle of glue, then stomped his maggoty self to moosh."

"Nice implementation," Spike said honestly. He pulled a wounded face. "Was a bit busy having an organ dropped on me to see it, of course."   


Xander grinned. "Yeah, still not how things work. You asked for that."

"I know," Spike said, chuckling. "Just a shame Angelus wasn't under there with us. Mighta cushioned the blow with that hammy back of his."

Xander shot him a sharper glance, keenness sneaking into his smile. "It is, isn't it."

"Maybe we could still arrange it. Gotta be church organs in LA. Next road trip, once he's all settled back in there."

"You're on."

  
  


Christmas approached, and seemingly overnight Buffy became obsessed with finding the  _ right  _ tree, the  _ sparkliest _ tinsel, the  _ perfect  _ Christmas cards to send to some distant relatives. He didn't get it, at first; Christmas, yeah, big commercial deal these days and all, but surely she didn't go through this for an entire month of every damn year? But it all made sense when she worked herself into an outburst at the (finally open late on Friday's again) mall one night over them not having the  _ proper  _ gift labels.

"These aren't the ones mom buys!" she almost shrieked at him, waving the sheaf of red foil sticky labels in his face.   


He couldn't decide whether she was about to cry or start swinging. Then she froze, spots of colour highlighting her cheeks at the sudden silence in the store around them. He took the wrong-labels from her, tossed them at the nearest shelf, and led her from the store.   


"Your mom doesn't care which bleeding labels you get, slayer," he risked once they were out under the evening sky. "Could write on things with a marker and she'd be content, I reckon. Anything else is just extra."  _ And if she'd seen you in the store just now, she'd retract her agreement to let you handle the decorations this year and insist on doing it all herself, recovery time or no. _   


"I know. I just want things to be right for her. She always makes everything perfect for it…"

Uh oh, tears were looking more likely. "Look. I'll find the labels. Be a treasure hunt. Card ones, on string ties, yeah?"

She stopped walking and looked up at him, eyes shining with that adoring affection that melted him every time. "Really?"

"Consider it done," he told her.   


He couldn't find the labels.   


Not at any of the stalls in the mall, not anywhere else in Sunnydale. Cardboard labels were out of fashion, or maybe simply not in stock yet - it was barely the first week of December. After almost threatening violence to a scrawny little teenager at the stationery shop, he took a step back and asked himself why  _ he _ was now on the verge of total insanity over the  _ right _ Christmas fripperies. Oh yeah, his girls wanted them. And he had promised.   


Joyce had been absolutely invaluable with other problems he'd run into; since cautiously accepting what Buffy had told her of the relationship, she'd helped him wrap his brain around several seemingly incomprehensible (and stupid) choices of behaviour that came as naturally as breathing to the breathing kind. But he couldn't take her this one. Doing so would undo the whole point of Buffy’s-handling-Christmas-so-you-can-rest. Try Willy's, then.   


On the still-mostly-clean floor of the recently reopened and relocated bar, he put the proposal out to the smattering of demons in occupation; “The Slayer needs gift tags. Cardboard ones, on little strings, all pretty and such.” Threaten bloodshed to anyone who didn't haul ass on the mission? No, better not. “There could be a favour in it for anyone who can bring me some.”   


They stared back blankly, like they were waiting for the punchline.   


"What?" he growled. "You bastards never heard of Christmas?"

"You should ask Clement," Willy said mildly at his back. "Loose-skin. Always making a damn mess with those bits of paper he fiddles with."

"Oh?"

"He's in the poker room."

Clement, it transpired, was a dab hand at making all sorts of shit from 'those bits of paper'. Did Spike want chains of ultra-realistic snowflakes to decorate with? Tiny folded treat boxes to hang up? A feathered angel tree topper of delicate kirigami?

"No bloody angels. Just gift tags. Nice ones. Can you do it?"   


He reckoned he could, and told Spike to come back on Thursday.   


When Spike walked into Willy’s the following Thursday, a couple of gopdeen demons stood up from their table. They had gift tags. (Thick brown paper ones, on natural twine strings, with white writing on them.) They offered them in homage to The Slayer, and hoped she would accept this meagre gift as a token of their respect.   


"Yeah. Right. Thanks," he said, and slipped them into his pocket. Gopdeens: keen to keep their good reputation up. Worth remembering.   


Clem had the goods. Embossed, windowed, layered, folded, gilded, inked; he'd made tags in every possible format imaginable, and plenty that weren't.   


"These are… beautiful," Spike murmured, flicking through the shoebox full. "Really, mate, well done."   


"It's just a hobby," Clem said with a shrug, but blushed until the ends of his ears reddened and a couple of slithering serpentine heads came peeping out of his facial folds.   


"What're they gonna cost me?" Spike asked, leaving the box sitting on the table between them. Undefined future favours were never a good idea, and it wouldn’t feel right to retract an offer of one on this.

Clem produced a shopping list, for the bulk place on Wackrow St. "Any way you can you get these? I'll pay, but they're only open days. Garth used to do weekly runs for us non-human-appearing folks, but he- well, he's not here anymore, and no one's stepped up to replace him."

Spike scanned the list; a pantry worth of junk food in precisely-listed brands and flavours. "Yeah. That's all you want?"

"Yes." Clem pushed the box forwards, tempting hopefully.   


"Right then. Deal."

Skin flaps jiggled as Clem gave him a beaming smile.

  
  


He found Anya in her favourite spot behind the register at the Magic Box, and put the scenario to her. "They're in need of a middlem- woman. Someone who can negotiate the vanilla human world to supply them with green onion cheezits and Belgian chocolate sauce. Probably plenty more, too; know there was talk of real estate leasing issues with those latest arrivals."

"Will they pay money?" Anya asked.   


"That's why I'm telling you." Newly-mortal-girl had thrown herself into a capitalist frenzy with frightening intensity of late, intent on working herself into the most secure position that was possible without her powers. She, of the pack of them, understood exactly how brief and fragile human lives were. The rest of them gave sideways looks to her obsession, then shrugged it off as an Anya-thing; they couldn't see the ticking clocks on their own heads. Probably for the best, too.   


Anya was smiling at him now, the happy grin on her unerringly candid face pleasing in a simple, relaxing way. "I'll run the errands for them for the right price, certainly, but I don’t want to be doing the deliveries. They'll probably try to shaft me eventually. You can do that part for me," she announced with perfect confidence.

"Can, can I?" he asked dubiously, feeling like he'd unknowingly contracted himself into something a few steps back.

"Yes. You collect the orders, I'll purchase the merchandise and make the arrangements, and you can deliver them." She flashed another perky smile. When he didn’t immediately agree, she added, "I'll allocate you a share of the profits."

Well, he had been starting to chafe against the knowledge that Joyce's pocket was currently keeping him in blood, beer and smokes; sure, she'd had him doing bits and pieces to keep an eye on the gallery for her, ostensibly earning it fairly, but Xander's  _ scabby freeloader  _ comment had landed uncomfortably and stayed there. Had been all well and good pickpocketing the boy's pizza delivery money back in the basement together, but was different now - both when it was Joyce, and when it was freely offered. "I s'pose I could," he told Anya.   


"Good. Give me that list."

  
  


"Why," Buffy asked a couple of weeks later, "do demons keep approaching me to present me with packets of gift tags?"

"They do?" Spike wiped his face of all emotion bar mild surprise.   


"Yes. Four times this week." She narrowed her eyes at him, (rightfully) suspicious that he must have the explanation and determined to force it out.

Spike leant back in his seat and put his feet up casually. "Dunno," he said lightly, smirking. "Reckon they must have heard about you shouting in the mall and figured they could assist with the problem. Good way for them to signal their continued obeisance to you."

Buffy watched him closely for a long moment, then shook her head and let the mystery hold.

  
  


**** +  
  


She didn't know what to get him for Christmas. He was too good at dramatic displays of passion; she had too much to thank him for and felt dumbly inadequate to doing so. There was no item he was in need of, nothing he'd expressed an idle wish to possess. He claimed to only ever want one thing, so in the end she gave him it, tying a green ribbon bow in her hair and one of her (many,  _ many _ ) gift tags around her neck;  _ For Spike, with love. _ As soon as they were alone she took off everything but the ribbon and tag, and he told her softly that he'd never had - didn't deserve - never imagined - anything so wonderful as what she gave him every day.   


Things got soppy briefly, before, "Then again, was that time Dru gave me a jar of white mice," he said, tilting his head in pretended deliberation on the matter, playful mirth sparkling in his eyes. "Fluffy little critters, in one of those big glass candy jars. Told me they were marshmallows."

She pulled a face somewhere between disturbed, confused and concerned. "Were they tasty?"

Spike twitched his nose in the most adorable look of put-upon distaste. "I doubt it. Wasn't about to open the jar and find out; they'd long since suffocated in there by the time she gave them to me." His voice turned softly pensive, teasing forgotten. "She meant well."

He sounded fond, and a snarlingly vicious wild cat flexed its claws inside her palms, ready to fight. Fight, and win.

Spike narrowed a shrewd gaze on her, then slowly curved his lips into a smug grin. "You're  _ jealous _ ," he whispered.   


Buffy attempted to scoff, rolling her eyes. "As if."

His grin only grew. "Oh yes you are, green-eyed little slayer-mine. All fired up ready to take out any competition for me, ain't you? Right inflating to the ego, that is."

She scowled at him, then turned her face away and muttered, "You guys have a lot of history."

"Hey," he whispered, all smugness vanishing as he cupped her cheek with his palm, dipping his face to find her eyes with his again. "We do," he granted quietly. "Spent a century and change loving one woman. Honouring her, serving her. Doesn’t go away just because it's over." Buffy tried to turn her head further away, but his palm was steely on the side of her face and his eyes were holding her even tighter with their crystal fierceness, willing her to hear him. "Be a part of me will always love Dru. A  _ part _ , Buffy. Listen. I love you in ways I didn't know were possible. With parts of me I thought I'd lost that century and change ago." An introspective, searching look came into his eyes, his focus drifting inward as Spike -  _ Spike - _ struggled to put something into words. "You… you let me be  _ more _ . Let me believe I  _ could _ be more. Loving you… god, when you smile, luv, I feel  _ alive. _ " The corner of his lip twitched in a hint of a self-deprecating shrug, then smoothed out again. His eyes focused back on hers, bare to her, softly adoring in a way that did funny things to her insides. "But forget about that. I loved you when I thought it - thought you - would only tear me apart. Because you are the most bloody amazing, incredible,  _ loving  _ woman I have ever set eyes upon. And I love you with  _ all _ of me. Okay?"

"Okay," she managed to whisper. Forget doing funny things, her insides were all melted into chocolate that had been left in the sun. Damn him and his blessed tongue and the insufficiency of  _ I love you like that too. _   


He tried to pull her up against him, ready to dive on her mouth and let her show with kisses instead of fumbling to tell, but she placed her hands on his chest to hold him back slightly. Fumbly or not, she needed to try. He asked so little, with his blend of insecurity and easy satisfaction; had he been like this for Dru, contenting himself with whatever she threw him until she threw him away? Or had the throwing away bred the insecurity? She knew hers had in her. But she didn't think it was that simple. There was so much smothered  _ need _ in him, like a- (well, okay,  _ hunger _ , it was only a word) a hunger that had been ignored so long he'd given up asking for something to feed it, and all but forgotten what would. What had he told her?  _ Some people just don't know how to love right. _ He knew it.

"Spike…" She looked down at her fingers splayed across him, pulling into language the feeling radiating from the places they were touching before she met his eyes again. "I told Angel once that when he kissed me, I wanted to die." She pulled a quick grimace at her younger self before continuing, "But when I kiss you… I feel indestructible. Inextinguishable. Like there's nothing I can't do. As though I could brush aside the armies of hell to slip my hand back into yours and see the way it makes you smile." He was doing it now, smiling at her as though all he ever wanted to do for the rest of his immortal unlife was watch her expressions change. "You told me that you knew what love should be like. I don’t think _ I  _ did. But I do now. What I'm trying to say is, I love you too."   


Spike sniffed in answer, blinking back the tears suddenly shining in his eyes.   


"Don't cry about it," she said in a small voice, but her own eyes felt suspiciously moist.   


"Come here," he said through a smile, and slipped his arms around her naked back to pull her hard against him in a fierce hug. 

  
  


A week later, Buffy opened the mailbox and found a thick ivory envelope addressed to  _ Miss Sunshine, 1630 Revello Drive _ in a spidery cursive script. She turned it over in her hands several times, relieved both that it bore a postmark and that said postmark was from Paraguay, five thousand-odd miles away. Sniffing it yielded no further information, so she opened it slowly and peered inside; it was another packet of gift tags.

  
  


In the new year, Anya and Willow seemingly argued an entire troll into existence, which she and Spike barely managed to beat into the land of unconsciousness before it could destroy the Bronze. From the escapade she gained herself a nifty hammer no one else could lift - whatever Giles said, she was still naming it Mjölnir - and a frank apology from Xander;  _ I didn't realise what I was doing, putting you in the middle like that. I am he of the apology, and tell Spike that pool game wasn't over yet, buster.   
_

It had taken Xander a long time to find his footing with Spike again, bouncing between habitual insults and nervous backtracking until it became clear that Spike wasn’t going to spontaneously tear his head off and could snark back much more cuttingly if he felt Xander was taking it too far. After that they both seemed to relax, and were warily inching towards a peculiar type of friendship. 

  
  


"Do you ever get the sense," Xander said one night, "that we're somehow missing a big-"

"Do  _ not  _ finish that sentence!" Buffy hissed. She cast her eyes around the room and found everyone else doing the same, echoing the feeling that no one had dared mention aloud until now: May was almost to a close, and the annual Sunnydale spring apocalypse was yet to transpire; no hint of a big bad on any horizon. Perhaps whatever cosmic deities were in charge of these things had marked the Hunger down as enough amusement for a time. Or perhaps they'd somehow been eaten too.   


The demon population was still down, but steadily recovering as the lure of the hellmouth proved stronger than the memory of the events of eight months ago. With representatives of many of the new and returning residents having met her in an official treaty-making capacity - and many others introducing themselves to Spike cautiously as he collected requests at Willy's - she felt better informed than ever. It turned out there were a  _ lot  _ of benign demons that wanted to congregate on the hellmouth, and this oddly diplomatic outreach seemed like something they should have started long ago. The cult of virgin-sacrificing hach demons who'd rolled into town last week had been dissolving into pools of slime on Willy’s floor by the time the runner he'd sent to inform her had led her back there, the regular patrons showing how much they didn't want trouble by opting to do her job for her. Were it not for having the best sparring buddy she could dream of on hand every evening, she'd be climbing the walls for something to  _ fight. _

  
  


**** x  
  


Spike lounged against the passenger side of the DeSoto, listening to the murmur of voices as Buffy hunted for some last-minute essential item and said goodbye to her mum. Again. She was stalling, probably hoping he'd get impatient and therefore behind the wheel. No chance. He could wait all night for this woman. Especially when he knew she wasn't coming to eat him this time.   


He eyed the glowing tip of his cigarette, the night sky, the side of the DeSoto gleaming where it caught the reflection of a streetlamp, amused by the inside-out deja vu of it all. Eleven months ago this would have been almost beyond conceivability. Now it only felt perfectly right.   


Buffy stepped outside at last, her backpack looking bulgier. She narrowed her eyes at the car briefly, as if threatening it with dire consequences should it fail to behave according to her will, then turned her attention to him and broke into an eager, excited grin.

"Can drive if you really want," he offered, now that he'd seen the determination on her face.   


"Nah. I can do this," she said firmly.   


_ Good.  _ Her nervous reluctance to extend her driving practice beyond the low-speed limits of town was adorable, but god knew she needed the skill well up her sleeve before another supernatural catastrophe made it necessary. After this trip he ought to look for a worn-out old manual car for her to shred the gearbox on, make sure she could hop into anything and drive it comfortably. Maybe talk her into a lesson on hotwiring ignitions too.   


He pulled the keys from his pocket and dangled them on his finger for her, and she leaned in close to kiss him on the cheek as she took them. "We got everything now?" he asked.   


Pulling back, Buffy shrugged off her bag and opened the rear door to drop it in. "Well, we've got a ridiculous amount more than we had last time," she said with a grin at herself. "I think we'll survive."

"Long as you don't spin us off the road," he teased.   


"I will not!" she snapped, but there was laughing competitiveness in it. Tossing her hair back, she circled the car and bounced into the driver's seat as he slid in his side. She started the car like she always did, listening to the engine catch and then revving it to a roar, a flash of livewire satisfaction sparkling in her eyes. Forget the tired old manual idea, she needed something that would growl under her hands, rumble and snarl in synchrony with her. "Just make sure you don't get us lost, map-boy."

He chuckled, stretching to rest his hands behind his head and kick his feet up on the dash. "Follow the signs, slayer. Reckon I can sleep this one away."

She shot him a look that said she wasn't fooled for a moment, then shrugged and eased the car out from the curb. "Okay. But when we arrive in Florida, I'm blaming you."

"Just aim for where the sun rises. State-sized forest. Can't miss it." Did miss a few parts of it, unexpectedly. Roaming with her in the heavily-filtered afternoon sunlight. Sinking his fangs into something hot and pulsing with life, even if it was furry. Shaking off social convention like an old winter coat and letting raw instinct guide themselves. Hence this long weekend camping trip, a few days escape while things were still peaceful at home. She'd suggested it shyly a few weeks ago when he'd said something reminiscent about their cave, and he'd instantly agreed. It felt right, almost necessary, to go back; like tying something off and cementing it.   


"Drive to the sunrise. Check. That's north, right?" She shot him a look of wide-eyed blank innocence which would have been disturbing in its accuracy were it not for the hidden mirth around her lips.

"Sure, go that way, you cheeky bint." He laughed, relaxing further into his seat, feeling at ease in a way that he couldn't ever remember being. 

  
  


Ten minutes later they were fighting over the stereo.   


Ten minutes after that, she pulled over and dragged him into the backseat on top of her.   


And all of it was bloody wonderful. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> People commenting and liking and lurking, I cannot thank you all enough. You guys make the magic happen, every one of you. And I'm so eagerly looking forward to catching up on your wonderful comments now, they mean so damn much to me but I often become weirdly illiterate when I try to express it 🤍
> 
> And a huge thank you to Micrindle23, who has somehow managed to keep up with my randomly frenetic writing and impulsive posting, you rock, you marvellous creature you :D
> 
> And thank you to spikes_heart, for cheering and error catching and generally being ever-ready supporto-girl, thank you!
> 
> 💙


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